


Breaking The Ice

by MycroftianTimelady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: British Government, Kissing, M/M, Potentially canon Mystrade, Series 4, i'll look after him, mycroft is a smol bean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftianTimelady/pseuds/MycroftianTimelady
Summary: After the Sherrinford incident, Mycroft finds himself lost, cold and afraid. But mostly bored.Luckily for him, one phonecall from a certain Detective Inspector is about to change that.However, scars of the past don't fade easily. Could this new interaction melt the iceman, or break him forever?





	1. Chapter One - A phonecall from Mr Lestrade

Hello. My name is Jim Moriarty. Welcome to the final problem...  
Tick tock  
Are you ready to condemn the prisoner?  
Tick tock  
This is where I get off...  
Tick tock  
Holmes killing Holmes...  
Tick -

Mycroft awoke with a jolt. A sharp, intense movement - fast, like a bullet from a gun. Mycroft Holmes had had enough of guns.  
He sat bolt upright against the pillows of his large four-poster, breathing heavily into the shadows. His face, damp with a thin layer of sweat.  
It had all been so real. He'd felt it - the fear he'd tried to mask, the ice-cold terror that had consumed him in that maze of concrete cells.  
Every minute inside that prison, every passing second had been a living, breathing horror. Yet somehow, somehow, he had been able to hold together the broken pieces of the ice that was him. Mycroft supposed this was largely due to the fact that Sherlock had been present - he was, of course, the smarter of the two. If Mycroft could not keep his head, when beside him Sherlock had stood resilient as a soldier, the shame might have consumed him far more than what he faced now.  
The bedroom felt intolerably cold.  
"The very picture of Mycroft Holmes." He though to himself.  
"The Ice Man. Isolated. Alone. Cold."  
He reached across to a bedside table and tapped the stem of his lamp. Immediately, the room flooded with amber light and, at least for the moment, Mycroft felt a little safer.  
06:45, the digital clock read. Before, Mycroft could hardly bear the thought of a digital clock - analogues were far more pleasant to have around the house - however since Sherrinford, he preferred to know the time instantly. And the tick-tocking had been beginning to drive him insane.  
Mycroft was glad of the time - there was no chance of him being able to sleep again, there never was after one of his nightmares. Instead, he wrapped a heavy dressing gown around himself and wandered downstairs to sit by the fire until sunrise. Mycroft passed the many family portraits which lined the corridor to the staircase. He hadn't had the time to send them off to be cleansed, so the blood-like lines still featured in the eyes of every painting. Usually, he would be furious at his brother for defacing family items of such importance. However, the childish prank reminded him of better days: when he would spend hours reading in the library, until Lock would run up behind him and pull at his ears, or dangle a spider from above. That was after Euros had been placed in the institution, of course.  
In an odd sort of way, Mycroft was beginning to like the blood-stained portraits. Perhaps he wouldn't send them away.  
The fire was already lit, but consisted of only glowing embers: The previous evening had been bitter, and Mycroft felt it best to leave the fire to die out of its own accord. A few pokes and an extra log, and orange flames began to dance in the shadows of the room. Mycroft sunk into his armchair.  
"Oh yes, that's me. The Ice Man. Frozen to the core." He murmured gently. It was certainly a Holmes trait, talking to himself. Sherlock did it too, although Mycroft usually knew he was talking to himself. Sherlock did not.  
Mycroft would have loved a cup of tea, however once he'd settled into the chair, he found himself incapable of any movement. That was where a servant might have been useful, but Mycroft disapproved of them. In his mind, his home was his place. His place to think without interruption, his place to do whatever he wanted without people taking an opinion on him. His place to be Myc. Not Mycroft Holmes, The British Government. Myc.  
Whatever Myc felt like doing, Myc did. Even the most brainless of activities such as watching the television, he could do quite happily in the knowledge that no-one would ever know. He particularly enjoyed the quiz shows - half the questions, he'd know the answer they wanted. The other half, he'd know both answers: The answer the public was told, and the answer the government didn't want the public to know about.  
"It is pleasant," he remarked. "To know the difference."  
Slowly the sun began to rise from the East of the sky, and a luminous light started to pour in through the windows. Mycroft looked across the room to the clock.  
07:03  
He was in no rush to get up.  
It had only been two weeks since Sherrinford, and Mycroft had been ordered specifically not to do any kind of mentally strenuous activity. The idea was totally illogical to him, but a firm talking to from Doctor Watson had convinced him to (begrudgingly) oblige.  
The trouble was, finding other ways to occupy himself was a tedious and aggravating task. Sudoku had worked for a while, however after successfully solving three without erasing one single number, he found he was able to solve them with a single glance.  
Then, he had attempted knitting. An abhorrent task indeed. The wool kept getting tangled, and the loops kept falling off the needles. This was far worse than the Sudoku - Mycroft Holmes had failed.  
One morning, he felt a sudden desire to bake. He was a surprisingly accomplished chef, despite the fact that he dined elsewhere most nights. The cake was a glorious affair - light, fluffy sponge with heavy cream and rich raspberry jam - a classic Victoria. It was only when he sat down to admire it, he realised a slight issue. He was supposed to be on a diet.  
The days just kept on rolling past, and Mycroft was itching for the end of the month when he would be allowed to return to the office and bury his feelings in his work. Only two more weeks to go. Thankfully, Anthea was taking care of his responsibilities in his absence. She was the only person he felt he could trust to perform the job correctly - he could hardly trust anyone surrounding him, seeing as their main source of income was getting paid to spy on people.  
Just as his mind was beginning to settle into a tranquil silence, the phone rang.  
"For God's sake!" Mycroft cried out indignantly. He walked across the room, loudly cursing the phone: firstly, it had made him jump and secondly it was making him leave his armchair where he had been really very comfortable.  
"Good Morning?" He said questioningly.  
"Good Morning, Mr Holmes. It's D.I Greg Lestrade, here... Um... Please do excuse me, if I've called at an inconvenient time..."  
"No, not at all, Gregory ...How might I ...Help you?" Mycroft stuttered a little. Why on Earth would Lestrade phone him at such an hour?  
"I was hoping if, Mr Holmes, you would be able to come down to Scotland Yard this morning if it would be, uh... Convenient?"  
"It depends on the occasion, Gregory. I'm under the strictest of orders from Doctor Watson."  
"Ah, yes. It is actually about John - um, I mean, Doctor Watson."  
"Oh."  
"The situation is, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson wishes to see you. He says it's urgent but he won't tell me what it's about."  
"Doctor Watson knows where I live, Gregory. Him and my dear brother broke in and disabled my security only two weeks ago."  
"Oh... Um... Well... He says he needs to see you here. That's all he'll say to me."  
"Give me half an hour. Ensure a piping hot, black coffee will be there on my arrival. Bone China teacup, not paper, thank you."  
"Thank you, thank you ever so much, Mr Holmes!"  
"Oh, and Gregory..."  
"...yes."  
"Whatever you do. Don't waste my bloody time."


	2. Chapter Two - A phonecall to Mr Holmes

Earlier that day

"And if you don't love me now, you will never love me again. I can still here you saying-"  
Greg groaned at the sound of his alarm. A while ago, he'd though it would be a good idea to set his alarm as his favourite song - start the day off in a good mood. However soon the song became a thing of pure annoyance, always reminding him of the worst feeling in the world. Getting out of bed.  
He wandered downstairs and into his small kitchen, poured a cup of instant coffee and settled down at the table to contemplate the day. Paperwork was piling up as always, Anderson couldn't help but be an irritating sod, and there hadn't been a decent investigation in weeks. The Sherrinford incident was certainly a shock for everyone, and quite frankly a Nation-wide embarrassment. Despite Mycroft's furious attempts to limit the publicity, it was inevitable that the news would get out, and soon the headline flashed around the world: 'Highest Security Prison Dismantled by Five Minutes'.  
Although not directly involved, things were becoming increasingly difficult for Greg. About three days after the rescue, he'd been asked to give several interviews on the real Sherlock Holmes. After a week, everyone at the office was asking what he knew about what had happened inside the cells.  
On top of all of this, Greg was becoming increasingly worried about Mycroft.  
"Mycroft. Make sure he's looked after." Sherlock had asked. When Greg agreed to it, it had seemed like the easiest thing in the world. However as the days passed by, he began to wonder how on Earth he was supposed to single-handedly look after The British Government. Should he invite him round for a cup of tea? Call at the door? A stroll in the park?  
None of these options seemed particularly possible. Mycroft Holmes wasn't the sort to meet at a cafe for a chat and hot chocolate.   
Two weeks. Two weeks, and he still hadn't even tried to arrange a meeting. Time was getting dangerously thin, and he knew Sherlock would be concerned. Whatever did happen that day, it had changed the consulting detective. Of course, he was still the same old man with an almost unparalleled mind. However a strange new warmth seemed to have crept in. Sherlock still slammed doors in the face of Anderson, and constantly deduced embarrassing things about Donavon, but beneath all of that, Greg could see it. Sherlock Holmes really did care.  
Yawning, Greg spread a liberal amount of Nutella over his slightly burnt toast. Perhaps today should be the day to do it. He would, with every confidence in the world, call Mycroft Holmes and invite him for a coffee. He didn't care that Mycroft would most likely decline. All he wanted was to be able to truthfully tell Sherlock that he was keeping half an eye on his brother.  
Picking up the landline, Greg cautiously punched in the first five digits of Mr Holmes' phone number. Then, he paused.   
It was stupid. Completely and utterly stupid. Who in their right mind would phone Mycroft Holmes and ask him out for bloody coffee?  
Greg deleted the numbers and sank back into his chair. It was nearly half  six, and he couldn't be late for work again. At first he was able to get away with saying he was being ambushed by press reporters, but two weeks on, the excuse was beginning to run very dry. Why was Mycroft making him so damn nervous? He'd spoken to him plenty of times before - even on the very day of Sherrinford. This was different though - far more... personal.   
He simply had to do something. Anything! It would have been far easier if he could call in at Mycroft's office. Unfortunately however, he was still on leave due to John's rigorous medical assessment. The prospect of going to Mycroft's house was quite unthinkable.   
Greg wondered what Mr Holmes' house  actually looked like. He imagined either something classic and antique or highly modern, with large, bright spaces. The former seemed more likely, considering the fact that he always carried an Umbrella and was never seen out of his three piece suit. Greg chuckled to himself, as he imagined a display of umbrellas, all mounted to the wall.   
Greg made a mental note to ask John about the house - the pair had only broken in a couple of weeks ago.  
Then, it hit him. The perfect plan, an excellent way to bring Mycroft to him, rather than him to Mycroft.  
"John. Hi, it's Greg Lestrade."  
"Morning, Greg. Bit... early, isn't it?"  
"Yeah... Sorry. I... I need your help, John. You see, Sherlock asked me to-"  
"Hang on a minute, Greg - I think Rosie's woken up." Greg mentally kicked himself. He'd forgotten about Rosie.  
"Oh God sorry."  
"It's fine, honestly. She's a good little girl... Sorry - you were saying?"  
"Yeah. Sherlock asked me to keep an eye on Mycroft and for days I just haven't known what to do. So, I was wondering if you could pop down to the yard this morning - I need an excuse to call him over."  
"Umm. Sure. What time do you need me?"   
"Would eight o'clock be okay? I'll tell Mycroft to come for eight thirty, but if he's early, I need you to be there. Are you sure you're happy to do this, John?"   
"Well if I'm honest I'd rather be asleep, but as it's you..."  
"Thanks mate. I'll see you soon."

Greg took a taxi into work, and was settled at his desk by 07:00. Already, Anderson had plagued him with another Sherrinford theory, Sally had asked if he'd been talking to the freak recently and a stray journalist had snapped his photo just as he was about to sneeze. A typical D.I. Lestrade morning.   
At five past, he nervously picked up the phone and re-entered Mycroft's number. It only rang a few times before it was picked up.  
"Good Morning?" Greg's heart leapt - this was it, the moment where he would finally do what he should have done a long time ago.  
"Good Morning, Mr Holmes. It's D.I Greg Lestrade, here... Um... Please do excuse me, if I've called at an inconvenient time..."   
Greg stumbled with his words. He took an anxious sip of water.  
"No, not at all, Gregory ...How might I ...Help you?"   
Mycroft always called him Gregory. No one else ever did, so the name always startled him a little.  
"I was hoping if, Mr Holmes, you would be able to come down to Scotland Yard this morning if it would be, uh... Convenient?"   
"It depends on the occasion, Gregory. I'm under the strictest of orders from Doctor Watson."   
"Ah, yes. It is actually about John - um, I mean, Doctor Watson."   
It was strange, really. To lie through one's teeth to the British Government itself.  
"Oh."  
"The situation is, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson wishes to see you. He says it's urgent but he won't tell me what it's about."   
"Doctor Watson knows where I live, Gregory. Him and my dear brother broke in and disabled my security only two weeks ago."  
"Oh... Um... Well... He says he needs to see you here. That's all he'll say to me." Damn. Why hadn't he thought this through a little?  
"Give me half an hour. Ensure a piping hot, black coffee will be there on my arrival. Bone China teacup, not paper, thank you." Greg felt a glorious wave of achievement wash over him - he'd done it. Finally.  
"Thank you, thank you ever so much, Mr Holmes!"   
"Oh, and Gregory..."  
"...yes."   
"Whatever you do. Don't waste my bloody time."  
With any luck, he wouldn't. But who knew when it came to Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman?   
No matter what happened, it was certainly going to be an interesting morning.


	3. Chapter Three - A meeting at Scotland Yard

Mycroft placed the phone back in its holder, then wandered back to his armchair. An hour and a half was ample time to get ready and travel to Scotland Yard, but for whatever reason, he felt inclined to run upstairs and prepare himself immediately. Myc did however withhold himself, and settled into the comfortable leather chair.   
Should he have told Greg not to waste his time? At the time, it had slipped out quite easily, but on second thoughts, he was worried he'd come across as cold and careless. Although that wasn't all that unusual.  
Mycroft put his eagerness to get ready down to boredom. Without any form of work to keep him busy, Mycroft was painfully bored. Usually, he would resort to entertaining himself with his own thoughts - the debates he would have inside his own mind were often heated and of the greatest interest. However those debates were best saved for when he was pretending to listen to imbeciles such as the Prime Minister.   
A cup of tea and a three digestive biscuits later, it was 07:30 and Mycroft felt it would be acceptable to get ready. He took a short, hot shower; combed back his dark, auburn hair; applied a little light concealer and lastly, sprayed on a small amount of Men's perfume.   
He opened up his large wardrobe and pondered over his choice of outfit. At first, he felt his classic pinstripe would do the job - classy but formal. Gregory did say it was urgent. Although he didn't want to seem too imposing - after all, it was the suit he'd worn the first time he kidnapped John. Eventually he settled on a pale grey three-piece and his favourite, umbrella-decorated, tie.  
Finally, Mycroft picked up his trusty umbrella (freshly loaded with new bullets) and strolled up the gravel path to his large, iron gates.  
Already a sleek, black car awaited him, and the chauffeur primly opened the back door.   
"Thank you."   
"Your welcome, Mr Holmes. Where shall I be taking you?"  
"Scotland Yard. Would you mind putting the blue lights on? I need to arrive promptly."

Meanwhile, Greg and John sipped coffee and waited. It was ten past eight, and they were debating when the best time to make coffee for Mycroft was. Luckily, they'd managed to find a china tea-set which was usually reserved for royalty, should they visit the yard. Greg had managed to bribe Lydia (the main desk secretary) into handing over some of her expensive Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee she'd been given as a Christmas present. All was going as smoothly as expected. 

"Thank you. I shall call when I wish to be picked up." Mycroft exited the car, Umbrella first. Although it was barely raining, he opened it up - he certainly didn't want to ruin his beautiful suit.  
"Mycroft Holmes. Here to see D.I. Greg Lestrade." Mycroft inquired at the front desk. The young secretary's eyes widened in shock - there were special protocols in place for Mr Mycroft Holmes.   
"G-good m-morning Mr Holmes. P-please, allow me to lead you to Mr Lestrade's office." She stuttered, quickly typing in the code 'UMBRELLA' into her laptop. Immediately, several heavily armed guards surrounded the entrance behind Mycroft, and the emergency shutters folded over the windows.  
"I hardly think this extra security will be necessary - in fact, I can't remember ever authorising it?" He questioned, raising a weary eyebrow.   
"I do apologise, Sir. However Detective Inspector Lestrade insisted that these measures be put in place."  
"Lestrade arranged this? I wasn't under the impression that Lestrade was in a position of that much authority."  
"I - I'm not sure I quite understand you, Sir? D.I. Lestrade is a highly influential man of the force."  
"I see." Mycroft made a mental note to re-assess own power within Scotland Yard - he was supposed to be notified of any changes.   
"Dr Watson, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Good morning." Mycroft entered Greg's office, gently closing the door behind him.   
"Have a seat, Mycroft. Greg - the coffee?" John said, gesturing to a chair in front of the desk.  
"Er yeah - got it here." Greg passed the cup and saucer to Mycroft carefully, and as he took it, their fingertips, for a split second, touched. The two men shot surprised looks at each other, then looked away in slight embarrassment.   
"So... Dr Watson. What is this urgent thing you wished to see me about?" Mycroft's heart was racing and he couldn't for the life of him work out why. His eyes darted across the room to Gregory. It was then that he noticed how dark and chocolatey his eyes were - deep and rich like his favourite chocolate cake (the sort he wasn't supposed to eat on his new diet). Good god those eyes were beautiful...  
"Mycroft?" Mycroft jumped out of his skin - he hadn't listened to a single word of what John had said.   
"I'm awfully sorry, Dr Watson - you were saying?"   
"You see, I'm no therapist, but as a trained Doctor and a PTSD sufferer, I know that you need to get out of the house a bit more and start..."   
Greg quickly zoned out of John's speech. It was lucky really that the two of them had managed to come up with a reason for Mycroft to be there. He looked up from his coffee at the man sitting across from him - Greg always admired Mycroft's perfectly tailored suits. This particular suit was especially nice, he thought. It brought out the fiercer red tones of his auburn hair but also made his stormy blue eyes appear darker.   
"...you see, this is where Greg comes in - Greg, do you want to explain?"   
Could he smell perfume? There was something there, something strong and alluring...  
"Greg?!"   
"John?"   
"Are either of you actually listening to any of this? No, don't worry Lestrade, I'll explain. As I mentioned earlier, you need to socialise a little more. However, as it's only been two weeks since you-know-what, Greg here tells me there are orders for you to be protected by some level of security. I can't imagine you'd be incredibly happy with a team of armed men around you, so instead we've suggested that Greg could accompany you - just for the next two weeks."   
"So what your saying, Dr Watson, is that Gregory here shall be my escort for the next two weeks?"   
Greg felt a slight thrill at the sound of his full name - although at first it had startled him, he could certainly get used to hearing it.   
"Only if you would be happy to authorise it, Mr Holmes..."   
"Please, call me Mycroft. And yes, I supposed it would be... Appropriate."  
"Are we settled, gentlemen?" John chipped in.  
"I do believe so, Dr Watson. Give my... Regards to my brother, will you?"   
John smiled and left, leaving Greg and Mycroft to arrange things.  
"There's an excellent restaurant on Ledbury road, would you care to join me tomorrow evening?"  
"Tomorrow..."   
Mycroft noticed the way that Greg bit his bottom lip whilst thinking. For some reason, a warm, tingly sensation was glowing in the pit of his stomach. He could help but smile a little in spite of himself.   
"Yeah I think I can do tomorrow... Any specific dress code?"  
"Smart casual will do. Eight o'clock? I can arrange a taxi for you."  
"Oh - thanks. My address is 34, Palmer Street - "  
"Yes, I know..."   
"Oh yeah - surveillance stuff and all that? Anyway... Goodbye Mycroft." He held out his hand, and Mycroft, perhaps a little too quickly, took it. As they shook hands, Mycroft felt a strange buzz of excitement. Perhaps this was the start of something wonderful.


	4. Chapter Four - An evening at Ledbury Road

Greg paced back and forth across his small bedroom. What on Earth was a person supposed to wear to dinner with Mycroft Holmes, the bloody British Government himself?   
Smart casual, Mycroft had told him. But what was Mycroft's version of smart casual? A three - piece suit without the pocket watch? No waist-coat? A special type of bow - tie only tailors know about?   
He knew he'd feel stupid wearing the whole dinner jacket thing. Besides, payday was on Friday and he wasn't sure his budget could stretch to an expensive suit before then - particularly seeing as he was supposed to be saving up to watch a football game abroad with the guys at the yard.   
All the same, he knew that nice jeans, a shirt and pullover certainly weren't appropriate.   
It didn't help that Mycroft hadn't said exactly where they were going, just the road it was on, so Greg wasn't able to look it up online to get a feel for the place.  
In the end, he decided just to go for his best long sleeved shirt, a black jacket and smart black trousers. Greg prayed he'd look smart enough - although at least he felt like himself, not as if he was playing dress-up.   
Despite the fact that he wasn't willing to pay for a new suit, Greg did go to John Lewis to buy some men's perfume. It was an unusual purchase for someone like him, but he felt it was suitable for the type of place he was going to. Having very little previous knowledge of perfume, he simply picked the first one he saw, which happened to be Eau de Lacoste. Whether or not it was popular, he had no idea, but it was moderately expensive and smelt nice enough.  
His transportation arrived at twenty to eight - a dark-windowed, black Mercedes. Greg smiled to himself as a Chauffeur gestured him into the car - he could get used to this...

****

Mycroft was nervous. Yet again.   
In the past he'd always been able to put on a mask and carry himself through any situation - even when, aged eight, his parents didn't talk to him for two weeks because they were too focused on baby Sherlock, he continued as usual, contenting himself with piles of books.  
However something about Gregory made his legs go all funny, and his stomach feel all fluttery. If he knew Greg's... preferences, he would be tempted to push for something more. He had an idea from the minute they shook hands (he'd felt Greg's pulse) but he wanted to be certain to avoid embarrassment. With any luck, he would be able to fully deduce Greg over dinner, then he could decide what to do.   
Relationships had never come easily to Mycroft Holmes, and it was especially difficult in his youth. Coming out to his parents aged 21 was awful - his mother ordered him from the house immediately, tears streaming down her face. His father was red with fury, screaming about the Holmes family name, that he was a disgrace to his family, that he would never be welcome again.  
Shortly, the black car pulled up on the kerb, and Mycroft broke into a smile as Greg exited it.  
"Good evening!" Greg strode towards Mycroft and shook his hand firmly. In this close proximity he smelt it again - that beautiful, earthy perfume.  
"How are you, Gregory? Well, I hope?"   
"Not too bad, thanks. So, where is it we're going?"   
"Just across the road - the restaurant is quite literally called The Ledbury." Mycroft smiled at this - he found the strangest little things amusing.  
A waiter took their orders and poured two drinks - red wine for Mycroft, white for Greg. Greg was pleased to find that he's dressed correctly - opposite him, Mycroft wore similar clothes - a pale blue shirt with silver cuff links and a well-fitted, navy suit-jacket. It was strange to see him without his usual tie and waistcoat, but definitely not unpleasantly so.   
"Glad too see there's no publicity here - it must be very difficult for you at the moment." Greg said, sipping his wine.   
"Like hounds on the scent of a fox they are. That's partially why I've hardly left the house recently. I can't stand them clicking away with their cameras."   
"Tell me about it - I got snapped the other day just as I was about to sneeze. I probably looked like I was being possessed!"   
Mycroft laughed, genuinely. It surprised Greg terribly, but he couldn't help but think how attractive it made him look.   
As their dishes arrived, Mycroft studied Gregory carefully - it was easy to deduce that Greg liked him, he certainly didn't dislike him. However, whether Greg was interested in the 'different sort of like' was harder to tell. Mycroft noticed that Greg was wearing perfume, which he hadn't yesterday - he could deduce that he didn't wear perfume to work, but did in the evening. Except this was ruled out by a further deduction that the perfume had been bought recently - he could see a few large droplets on his shirt collar, which indicated that the perfume hadn't been used before (the first spray always splattered a little). From this, he deduced that Greg hadn't ever purchased any perfume before: otherwise, he would've known to spray it away from himself first a couple of times to free up any stiffness in the cap. So why would a man who hadn't bought perfume before suddenly buy perfume? It would seem illogical, unless...  
"Is there anywhere you were particularly interested in going this week?" Greg asked.   
"Well there is currently an intriguing exhibition at the Tate Modern. Quite dark and macabre."   
"Oh really? In what way?"  
"You see, it's a sculpture artist. He creates these marvellous pieces which portray humans, except they're not quite... right. The piece is supposed to portray the character, not the physical being, so the result is often rather unnerving..."   
Greg's heart was racing at a billion miles an hour. Just listening to Mycroft's voice, hearing his passion for the art gave him strange and wonderful thrills. It was so confusing, so unexpected. Greg knew he wasn't straight as a pole, but this was something else.  
"Sounds fascinating, although I didn't imagine you'd be interested in that sort of stuff." Greg forced himself to reply - he was becoming rapidly nervous about speaking in case his words might reveal his infatuation .  
"Quite the contrary. Although I may despise true gore, it is a rather thrilling concept when placed in a fictional environment."   
That was it for Greg. They way Mycroft lingered over 'thrilling', his sly little smile, the way he bit his lip at the end. He closed his eyes for a second, and breathed in and out slowly.

Thoughts rushed through Mycroft's head. Signals and signs all dashing to and fro as he tried to figure out what Gregory was thinking.   
"It should be clear," he thought.  
"I once worked out how a man was killed by the angle of his doormat, why should this be such a trial to my mental capacity?". It was painful, so painful as Mycroft observed the wonderful man that sat before him. His beautiful, deep brown eyes held so much emotion, so many feelings that he wanted to unlock.   
Mycroft continued his deductions. Greg seemed keen enough to accompany him to the art exhibition, however this could either be a genuine wish to spend time with him, or merely because John had told him to. What else? Well Greg had clearly made an effort, firstly with the perfume of course and secondly, he was wearing a much nicer shirt than Mycroft had ever seen on him before. It was a perfect fit and Greg looked incredible...

Greg meanwhile was toying with an idea. To ask, or not to ask? The question was spring-loaded and potentially dangerous but he yearned to ask it, to possibly inspire an idea which could unfold into greater things. He supposed it was safe enough to ask, though. Surely it was a question which came up in most people's conversations? He took a deep, steadying breath and said:  
"So, uhh Mycroft... Have you ever... You know, been married or anything?"   
Mycroft nearly dropped his spoon.   
"...No?" He frowned at Greg inquisitively.   
"Just wondering, that's all... I was married. Divorced now though. Unpleasant business..."  
"Well... I'm very sorry to hear that." Mycroft gave Greg the most concerned, caring face he could muster whilst internally he was almost explosive with joy. Unmarried! Excellent.   
Except for one thing. He had been married to a woman. That was decidedly less excellent.  
"Things just didn't work out... I became so disinterested in her..." Greg, quite unsuccessfully, attempted to subtly put across the message to Mycroft. "So what about you, Mr Holmes? Seeing anyone?" Greg bit his lip cautiously - he wasn't quite sure if he was in his place to ask this.  
"Well. No. Lady Smallwood seems interested but I am certainly not interested in her."   
Greg merely nodded at this. It was impossible - neither man could fathom how to reveal himself to the other, for neither realised that the other was in fact in the same position.   
The evening came to a close fairly shortly after that. Mycroft payed the bill despite Greg's best efforts to offer to do it himself. However he did make sure to leave a generous tip for the waiter - something which caught the attention of Mycroft, who had strong idea regarding manners and etiquette.   
As a final attempt to unlock him, Mycroft offered to accompany Greg home in a taxi, however neither spoke throughout the entire journey. Both were deep in thought, contemplating the strange events of the evening.   
They pulled up outside Greg's flat, and Mycroft left the vehicle as well to say Goodnight. It was a lovely, cool night - clear skies speckled with billions of silver stars.   
Again, Mycroft extended a gloved hand and the two exchanged yet another handshake.   
And as they looked up into each other's eyes, it hit them like a bus.  
And suddenly, they both knew.


	5. Chapter 5 - A bridge over the river

The following night, Mycroft curled up in his leather armchair: A Russian novel in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. To his side sat a small, crystal tumbler of Whisky, but he wasn't in the mood anymore to finish it. 

In the early hours of that morning, Mycroft had been forcefully awoken by yet another nightmare. Eyes wide, scanning the room; hands shaking uncontrollably; a prickling chill of fear.  
They were always the same: Eurus' voice echoing relentlessly in his head, the sinister tick-rocking of Jim Moriarty and the image of his Sherlock turning the gun to himself, which was forever etched in his memory.   
The bed was freezing. Always freezing, always too large for its occupant.   
He wandered downstairs, as was his usual course of action when awakened in the early hours. On this morning, the fire had not been left overnight, so even the living room carried a deathly chill of winter, not helped by the fact that he'd left a window open. He clicked the heating up a couple of notches, and settled down with a cup of English Breakfast tea and four Rich Tea biscuits.  
Placing his hands together, Mycroft rested his chin upon them and tried to fathom what had happened the night before. He was certain - very certain - that Gregory did indeed have some feelings towards him - but to what extent?   
He replayed the scene in his head, the moment when he finally saw that their feelings were, in fact, shared. Curious thrills ran over him, as he pictured Greg's face - classically handsome, inviting...  
Eyes to die for.   
Only time would tell, Mycroft supposed, but impatience had already begun to take over. Gregory had to be at work that day, but perhaps the next (if Mycroft could pull some strings down at the Yard) they could venture down to the Tate. Mycroft had always been an Art enthusiast, despite his father greatly discouraging the activity. In his youth, he had been fairly skilled in the practice himself: in particular, observational pieces such as pond life or sketches of his pet fish, Reginald.   
His father scorned his work, calling it "Hardly a pastime for an intellectual." Against which, Mycroft protested greatly. To him, Art was a thing of deep meaning and symbolism, hardly putting paintbrush to canvass and hoping for the best.  
For years, it seemed Mycroft's artwork was only adding fuel to a fire which erupted on the day of his coming out. That day, every little thing which had built up in his father's mind came out with furious force, his figure and appearance amongst them. His sexuality had been the ignition for an already waiting bomb.   
From that day, he'd taken his own path. His mother thankfully came around a few weeks later and ensured that his savings and allowance were transferred to a new bank account for his use. All of this was done in secret from his father, who had sworn never again to look upon the face of his son again.  
Mycroft closed his eyes, and leaned back, sighing. He wanted to see Gregory, to further things somehow...  
As the day dawned, Mycroft made his way back upstairs to get ready. He had a plan, and there was nothing to stop him.  
Half an hour later, sporting one of his more unobvious suits, Mycroft rushed out of the door, and into a waiting black Range Rover.   
"Regents Street, please Lawrence." He requested with a small smile. Taking his notebook out of his pocket, he scanned over his list of things to do, and places to go. Perhaps the Florist's would be a good start - that way, he could get the best ones while they were still fresh from the morning delivery.

It was around 3 o'clock, and Greg was fed up with everyone.  
They'd been working on a nastily difficult case for days, one which, to Donovan's disgust, required Sherlock. Naturally, Sherlock found himself unable to complete a single deduction without any kind of comment regarding a member of the team, which usually happened to be Anderson. As a result, Anderson was becoming increasingly agitated, and eventually refused to work on the case at all. Donovan, on the other hand, contented herself by discounting every piece of evidence Sherlock brought up.  
Greg had lost the will to live.  
He called a much needed tea break, and receded to his office, purely for a few moments of peace. He buried his face in his hands, utterly exhausted. Why did he have to be here? Greg wanted more than anything else in the world to step out of the building, and visit the Tate with Mycroft – was that really too much to ask?  
There was a small knock at the door.  
"Come in." He muttered.  
"Delivery for a D.I. Lestrade?" Suddenly, several men and women poured into his office, carrying a few colourful items - flowers amongst them.  
"I wasn't expecting..."  
"They're gifts apparently. Don't know who from." A woman holding a box with a cake in it replied.  
"Oh. Well, thank you..." They placed the gifts on his desk, and left leaving the door wide open – an unfortunate mistake.  
"Greg, it all makes sense now – ooohhh? What's this?" Sherlock burst into his office and strode up to the packages.  
"Flowers, cake, coffee, chocolate. An admirer, definitely – seemingly a long-term partner, but judging by your surprised expression, I expect not – so someone who loves you, really loves you, but you're not yet together? The gifts are moderately expensive, but not terribly – they want to give you the best, but not overwhelm you-"  
"Sherlock, stop deducing and get out."  
"But-"  
"Out!"   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and left, half-slamming the door behind him.  
Greg looked in awe at the things before him. There wasn't a shadow of doubt in his mind as to who the sender was. He did however wonder why they'd been sent. He was genuinely touched by the gesture, but had never imagined Mycroft Holmes to be the sort of man to send anonymous gifts...   
Greg pulled the chocolate box towards him, and took one out: a pretty little caramel sweet. He went to bite into it, but stopped himself, instead placing it in the centre of his tongue and letting it melt slowly. As he rolled the creamy chocolate around his mouth, thoughts of Mycroft floated through his mind, thoughts of shared kisses, shared laughs, shared precious little moments.   
He bit down on his lip, heart beating nineteen to the dozen.   
Next, he inspected the coffee. It was an Artisan brand and an interesting selection of four different coffee blends. To his delight, it came with a couple of small bottles of coffee syrup - a rare indulgence of his. How could a man, who'd seen him so little, know him so well? Holmes intuition, probably. With any luck, Sherlock hadn't been able to deduce who'd sent him his presents, although Greg severely doubted this. Greg didn't care though - there was no way he'd let Sherlock Holmes intervene things.  
Greg filled up an empty vase from the windowsill, and went to transfer the flowers, when suddenly he noticed a small, white card.   
"Tomorrow?" It read. Greg pondered over the note for a minute, then took out a pen and wrote another note beneath the first.   
"Solved it, have you, Sherlock?" Greg re-entered the investigation room.  
"Yes, it was Graham Phillips, the gardener. He replaced the weed killer spray with cyanide gas, obviously."   
"And he's not dead, because?" Donovan asked, clearly displeased.  
"He was using an industrial weed killer, therefore he was wearing a gas mask - are you really that stupid, or are you just pretending to entertain us all?"   
"Yeah - brilliant as always Sherlock - right, you're all dismissed for the day. I've got to go - something urgent's come up."  
"Urgent?" Anderson frowned.  
"Yes, urgent. Off you go - go have dinner with Sally or something."   
Greg rushed out of the office, and downstairs to the front desk.  
"Have this card delivered to Mycroft Holmes, immediately. It's vitally important that he receives this message today." He thrust the card into the hand of the shocked secretary, who took it without question.

Precisely 23 minutes later, Anthea arrived outside Mycroft's home, white card in hand.  
"Mr Holmes, awfully sorry to have to intrude upon you during your time off, however I've been told this message is urgent."   
Mycroft took the card, and immediately broke into and uncontrollable smile.  
"Thank you, ever so much Anthea. I trust all is well at the office?"   
"I haven't started any wars, Sir."  
"Excellent, excellent. Well, goodbye then." Mycroft dismissed his secretary promptly, and looked over the card again.   
"My, my Gregory, you are impatient." Hastily written beneath his "Tomorrow?" Read the word "Tonight."  
He took out his phone, and texted:

A kind gesture, Gregory, but you haven't said where? - MH

It wasn't long before Greg typed back:

How does the Millennium bridge sound? - GL

Perfect. I expect you to be there at 7:00 - MH

I'll be prompt - GL

Greg reached the bridge at quarter to seven, in the hopes that he would arrive before Mycroft. In pure Mycroft style, however, he'd been waiting since ten past seven. Greg should've known.   
His heart was racing as he approached the auburn, who looked incredible in the February moonlight.  
"Good evening, Gregory. Good day at the office?"   
"The best... Someone sent me some really exquisite gifts - the sender was anonymous, though..." Greg frowned in mock confusion. The two of them giggled, flashing each other a glance of mutual humour.   
It was a pleasantly cool evening, drenched in the soft light of the moon. The city felt alive: dozens of cars, darting back and forth, the occasional red London Bus. For a while, the two men strolled along the length of the bridge, then upon reaching the middle, they came to a halt.   
"You don't mind if I smoke?"  
"I'll join you."   
Mycroft offered Greg his lighter.  
"Case solved I presume?"  
"With your brother involved, how couldn't it be?"  
"Yes... My brother." Mycroft grimaced.  
"He doesn't know, does he? About the... Gifts?"   
"He... He started to deduct."  
"I should've known." Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. "He always was too inquisitive for his own good - the pursuit of knowledge, of course, I always encouraged. But idle nosiness was an unfortunate trait in a child. Sherlock once told the fishmonger his brother was in an affair with his wife in front of all of the customers. He was nine years old."   
"I stopped him before he got too far... At least I think so."   
Greg jumped and looked up as Mycroft took his hand gently.   
"I promise you, I will not allow my brother any form of involvement." He said, earnestly.  
"It's Sherlock Holmes. He'll find a way."   
"I'm Mycroft Holmes. I have control over his gas and electricity." He smiled wickedly, making Greg's breathing hitch slightly. Slowly, they leaned in towards each other, nervous, unsure of what was to happen next. Greg moved in even closer, making Mycroft's eyes widen nervously, darting about, trying to decide what move to make.  
Except Gregory made the move for him.  
He hesitated for less than a second more, before leaning in, and kissing Mycroft, a sweet and curious kiss full of new discovery. Mycroft's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates in shock, but soon he settled into the kiss, closing his eyes and placing a hand around Greg's head. He didn't care that all around, people were watching. All that mattered was that he was kissing Gregory, that he was kissing the man he'd come to love. They broke apart, slightly breathless, each full of wonder at the turn of events.   
"Good god, I'm in love with the British Government..." Greg breathed, eyebrows raised sheepishly.  
"Oh lord, don't call me that..." Mycroft half-smiled, laying his long fingers on Greg's cheek. "Or Mr Holmes for that matter."   
"Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. Who would've guessed?" Greg chuckled, utterly confused at how something so unexpected could be so right.  
They spent the rest of the evening mindlessly wandering the streets of London, talking of meaningless little things. In that moment, it seemed no two people could be more meant for each other than them.   
Later that night, Mycroft curled up in his leather armchair: A Russian novel in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. To his side sat a small, crystal tumbler of Whisky, but he wasn't in the mood anymore to finish it.   
Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, had found love.


	6. Chapter Six - A most pleasant trip to London

"Fascinating."  
"Mm?" Greg sidled over to Mycroft, who was intently studying a black marble sculpture.  
"Step back for a moment. What can you see?"  
"Umm. A man's face, I s'pose."   
"Indeed, Gregory. But what does the artist want you to see?"  
"Well. The... Um... Nose is a bit weird..."   
"Eyes."   
Greg shuffled forward and squinted at the artwork. It had been years since he'd been to any kind of exhibition, what with work and his old married life. He was the sort of person to admire art, but from a distance - of the Arts, he much preferred Dramatics. Perhaps he'd suggest going to the Theatre at some point.  
As he moved in closer, Greg noticed that the pupils of the eyes were tiny, open circles.  
"Look inside."   
Greg peered into the dark rounds, and gasped. Inside the eye sockets, where the brain would be, a minute sculpture of a woman lay sprawled across a floor: her limbs bent backwards.   
"Good lord! That's... Grim."  
"Maybe. But don't you see the message? You cannot define a person by their exterior, or what they choose to show you. It is their experiences, what is hidden within that 'maketh the man'."   
Greg stepped back. He hadn't noticed before, but there was something pained about the expression on the man's face. A small plaque beneath it read:  
"The roads we walk have demons beneath them."   
It was astonishing how Mycroft had, with such ease, understood the piece - although, he reflected, Mycroft certainly had his own Demons of the past.  
"I know the quote well. Although my memory fails me as to where I first found it." Mycroft murmured. "I hardly expected to find it here, of all places... Our world does indeed work in mysterious ways."   
They moved on from the sculpture. It was a surprisingly large collection of artwork, yet each piece managed to bring something different and no less interesting than the previous. Every so often, Mycroft would point out his favourite structures and explain them to Greg, who was starting to better understand the artist.   
As impressive as they were, Greg was far more captivated by the other man than the sculptures - it was so strange to see Mycroft Holmes talk and discuss something other than the running of the country. His enthusiasm for the collection was infectious. The joy it gave him seemed to run through his entire body - Mycroft seemed far more relaxed, and had even removed his suit jacket to wander around in his shirt and waistcoat. Greg wondered if he ever wore anything other than a suit. He chuckled at the thought of Mycroft sleeping still fully dressed, still with pocket-watch and tie pin attached.  
"Everything alright?" Mycroft smiled at Greg, who coughed theatrically and composed himself. Mycroft had been studying a metal sculpture - again of a face, a woman's this time. Everything appeared normal except for her mouth. It bulged a little - very subtly, as if something was trying to escape.   
"Something to do with freedom of speech?"  
"My thoughts exactly, Gregory. There's clearly something she wants to say, but can't..." He looked down to read the plaque, but there wasn't one to read. "Funny. The rest of them have plaques."  
"Her message is still trapped. That's why she doesn't have one."   
Mycroft looked to Greg surprisedly.   
"Of course! I hadn't realised..."  
At one o'clock, they left the museum to find a café for lunch. Unfortunately rain had moved in whilst they were inside, and it was practically bucketing it down. They huddled under Mycroft's umbrella, although it barely covered them both: Mycroft had to let his elbow get damp for Greg to be fully covered. Soon the wind picked up, and a huge gust nearly blew the umbrella out of the auburn's hands.   
"Did you have anything in mind as to lunch?" Mycroft raised his voice above the hammering rain.  
"Anywhere as long as it's dry."   
"Olivia's Kitchen, on our right. Sounds pleasant enough." They crossed the road (with difficulty) and speed-walked into the inviting little café. It was mostly empty, expect for a young man with headphones and a laptop. Comfortable chairs sat around circular tables, and a small fireplace meant a much welcome change from the cold outside.   
"Good afternoon, sirs. Can I offer you a table?" A young-ish woman with strong features and a thick Italian accent greeted them.  
She seated them near the fireplace, and offered to take their coats.   
"I shall hang them up, to dry. The weather; it is awful." She rolled her eyes at the rain which continued to pound at the glass windows.   
"A menu for you, Sir, and a menu for you." She said, handing over two menu cards. They were handwritten in deep green ink, illustrated in the corners with small sketches.   
"Perhaps we could order a... Sharing platter?" Greg suggested cautiously. He was unsure as to where their relationship was. The previous night had been such an unexpected turning point, that he wondered whether it had been purely a whimsical thing of the moment.   
"I was going to suggest the same thing - I am rather partial to Antipasti."  
It wasn't long before the waitress brought to the table a long, wooden board, laden with various Italian foods. Each item was divisible by two: two bruschetta's, four delicate slices of prosciutto, twelve olives and so on. It was all perfectly delicious, and all was eaten within a few minutes. All except for one olive.   
"Is the Lone Olive yours or mine?" Mycroft stared down at the green vegetable.  
"I can't remember." Greg put down his fork.  
"Hm."   
"It's alright. You have it."  
"No, no, I insist, Gregory. The olive is yours."   
"Honestly, Mycroft. I don't mind at all, you have the olive."   
"I do think I've had my share of olives, dear. Please, take it."   
Greg froze: Mycroft had called him dear.   
"I'm certain the olive is yours, Myc."   
Mycroft flinched. It was the first time he'd heard anyone other than his brother call him by his nickname.   
"Oh... I'm sorry Mycroft. I didn't mean to offend you at all..." Greg looked down in embarrassment.  
"No, no, not at all. I'm merely not used to hearing it."  He went to say something else, but hesitated. However, upon seeing Greg's smile falter, he added: "But I certainly wouldn't object being called it more often. You don't mind me calling you Gregory?"   
"I'll admit I like being called by my full name - no one else does, you see?"  
Mycroft gave a weak smile and diverted his attention back to the olive, which was still sitting most unmovably on the wooden board.  
"Please, Gregory. Take the olive - I cannot bear to discuss the damn thing further."   
"You have it, and the debate's settled." Greg grinned cheekily, propping his chin up on his vertically-resting forearms. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in mock disdain, and eventually speared the thing with unnecessary force. He wavered in the air for a moment, then gingerly placed fork and olive back on his plate with such care, you might have thought it was a bomb.   
"It's settled. I abdicate from eating the Olive. If you wish to, then please do. If not, that is entirely your choice."

Mycroft paid the bill, and thanked the Waitress most profoundly. They stepped back out into the torrent of rain, and battled the fierce winds which rendered the Umbrella wholly useless. The original plan had been to walk to Selfridge's, yet strangely neither man fancied the semi-long walk any more. Instead, Mycroft phoned for a car, which picked them up on Portobello road.   
The Olive was left, forgotten.  
It was a blessed relief to step into the warm vehicle, with its real leather upholstery and black privacy windows. Mycroft absent-mindedly placed his hand in the gap between the two seats. Greg, noticing this, subtly edged his a little closer.   
"I do apologise for our trip being cut a little short. This weather is simply atrocious." The auburn sighed apologetically. He crept his hand over slightly in a half-hearted attempt to be inobvious.   
Greg bit his lip. The events of the night before almost seemed like a beautiful dream now, and he could hardly decide where to take things next. He thought of their kisses with a tantalising thrill - how their lips had touched with such passionate affection, how Mycroft had pulled him in with his gorgeous, long-fingered hands.   
His thought was interrupted by a click of a button - Mycroft putting the divider across. Greg's eyes flitted across to meet Mycroft's, who smiled almost devilishly back at him. Greg broke into a (slightly bated) grin, and questioned:  
"The divider, Mr Holmes?"   
"I felt the need for a little privacy." He undid his seatbelt, and with sudden confidence, took up Greg's hand in his own. Greg was confused in the nicest way - Mycroft Holmes was turning out to be a most unexpected man indeed.  
Mycroft lifted Greg's hand and kissed it lightly, his breathing noticeably shaky. The inspector, seatbelt removed, shuffled over and ran his hands through Mycroft's soft, auburn hair and down his chest, finally resting upon his heart. Mycroft shivered at his touch, and brought him in closer. Their heads drew together, and the auburn planted small kisses on the detective's neck, working his way closer to his waiting lips. They kissed with a passionate urgency, Mycroft's long nose brushing against Greg's cheek, Greg running his hands across Mycroft's back.   
The car journey was hideously short, and both men were incredibly put-out when it came to an end. Mycroft offered Greg in for a cup of coffee, but Greg disappointedly declined owing to a large amount of paperwork he had to complete (a result of his absence from work that day).   
It had been a most pleasant trip to London, but decidedly, the journey home was far more pleasant.


	7. Chapter Seven - In the Spirit of love

"Champagne, sir?"  
"I really shouldn't... oh, go on then." Greg enthusiastically sipped the sparkling alcohol - he expected he'd need something on board to get through the night ahead. A few waiters floated through the buzz of the crowd, offering various canapés and drinks, most of which were alcohol of a stronger tendency - a silent agreement in preparation for what the evening might hold. A platform stood at one end of the room, occupied by a small ensemble and singer, who sang an oddly satisfying, jazz cover of Thriller.  
"Ghosts. Fascinating concept. Imprints of what had been... Are you a believer, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, taking a small cube of cake from a passing waitress.   
"Well, I'm definitely not a skeptic. Whether we'll see anything tonight, I don't know. These ghost tours are purely London tourist fodder."  
A week had passed since their London antics. Mycroft was finally back in the office and pleased to be, although he did feel a certain urgency to series-tape a comedy he'd been watching on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It was strange, really. Whilst he'd had the time to view it, Mycroft hadn't felt especially interested in the programme, yet when running the country again loomed, he felt compelled to continue the routine of watching. Perhaps it was purely his appreciation of routine (although, more likely the ample supply of rather dashing male characters).   
It was Greg's idea to participate in a ghost tour. Ghosts had always thrilled him, even from a young age when his Grandfather would tell the most tantalising of ghost stories under flickering candlelight. He thought it might be a good way to relieve some of the pressure Mycroft-Holmes-The-British-Government had to face. Unfortunately, now the evening had begun, Greg had his doubts. Mycroft seemingly kept his composure, but Greg started to notice the vast number of drinks he was taking; whisky, sherry, ginger liqueur, a third of a 'Flying Kangaroo' (whatever it was, it was clearly disgusting). He even knocked back two vodka and pomegranate shots. It seemed there were countless sides to the man so private and reserved. Greg couldn't help but love the slightly nervous, vulnerable Mycroft - after all, he would be more than happy be the supporting hand that Mycroft needed.  
Eventually though, Greg had to intervene - Mycroft needed his legs to walk the tour. Despite the substantial quantity of alcohol he consumed, the effect wasn't large - except for his keenness to point out the cake tray to Greg every time it went past.   
"We're put through extensive alcohol training, people of my sort of position. For practical reasons, you must understand. If a person, for any reason is trying to get us drunk, it makes it about 30% harder for them to do so." Mycroft explained.  
"And how does one train for that sort of thing?"   
"As much as I'd love to say we spent a week in the Loire valley, it was actually a rather boring affair. Just a plain white room, a fridge and a couple of sofas."  
"So you drank 'till the effect wore off? Sounds bloody awful to me."   
"Mm. It wasn't all drinking though - there are methods for keeping one's head. Oh look! Cake - you must try some, dear, it's very nice."   
A hush fell over the room as the last few notes from the band trailed off, and the tour guide took to the stage.  
"Ladies and Gentlemen... This evening, we welcome you all to a chilling night of thrills, of hauntings and of terror. We shall begin at the infamous Geap Manor. Known for its troubled past and reputation for Evil, the manor has stood for many a century. Please, follow closely. We wouldn't want any of you to be snatched from behind our backs, would we?"   
"All a load of crap, if you ask me. Clearly a failed Drama student trying his best." The auburn whispered to Greg, all too audibly.   
"Mycroft!" Greg chuckled. A few people gave admonishing stares, but Greg didn't care. Mycroft's puckish smile was utterly irresistible.   
The party exited the building, out into the cold night. A path stretched out leading up to an imposing house, only illuminated by the moonlight.   
"Now unfortunately the property is off limits to the public, however it has been said that if you look up the the East window on a night like this one, a pale lady can be seen staring down, her eyes wide and panicked. Strange noises echo from within - a baby's cry, a man's cough, a woman's laughter..."   
"Bloody cold tonight." Mycroft remarked, whilst peering into the cracked windows of the building.    
The group shuffled along to the next location, a small, disused farmhouse. An eerie quiet befell the building, and even the smallest noises ricocheted the walls. The majority of the group poured into the main room of the house, leaving Mycroft and Greg trailing at the back, with only the darkness behind them.   
"Listen..." The guide whispered, and all fell silent. Trees rustled softly in the wind, and Mycroft desperately wanted to join the group inside. It was pitch black outside - 'who knew what could be lurking out there?' He thought. Irrational as they were, his fears of the paranormal were great.   
Greg noticed how anxious the auburn was starting to look, and tried his best not to laugh - the change in the man, usually so contained and unaffected, was incredible! Sympathy, however stopped his amusement, and he reached down to take Mycroft's hand in his own.   
"SHIT!" Mycroft leapt out of his skin, and others did to as he shouted out in shock. Greg couldn't help but laugh, as he placed a comforting arm around the auburn's shoulders.    
The tour took them around several more buildings (shops, houses, churches - even a castle) before finally commencing back at the original meeting point, where food and drink were still available. Greg left briefly for the loo, and when he returned, he found Mycroft passed out in a chair at the side of the room, an nearly empty cup of (what looked like) coffee on the floor next to him. Greg gave it a tentative sip: Irish coffee. Irish coffee with a more-than generous dose of Whiskey.   
Greg hauled the half-conscious man out to the car, and bundled him inside as unsuspiciously as he could muster. Mycroft mumbled quietly, stirring every time the car stopped.   
It took both Greg and the driver to drag him up the stairs, and unceremoniously dump him on the bed. As he thudded on to the mattress, Mycroft shot awake.  
"Stay the night, Gregory dear?" He murmured sleepily, then collapsed again. Greg removed Myc's shoes and socks, but hesitated before taking off his coat and jacket - he wasn't quite comfortable enough to remove anything else, at least not for the moment.   
It was late - very late, and Greg was exhausted.  
"Stay the night." Mycroft had said. He didn't have work in the morning...   
He sat down at the edge of the bed, contemplating the situation. It was awfully late... Mycroft was muttering in his sleep again, agitated this time, his brow furrowed in fear. Greg carefully lay next to the other man, cautious not to make too much noise. A smile crept across his face as he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, warm, sleep.


	8. Chapter Eight - Sweet Dreams are Made of This

The day was beautiful. Idyllic, even. Soft white clouds marbled against the smooth, gradiented-blue sky; to the distance, rolling green hills dipped low as an amber, setting sun crept between them: casting its last few rays over the tranquil countryside.    
Where one hill melted into another, a small house sat nestled in the crook, surrounded by a scattering of trees, bordered by a snaking stream.   
Mycroft sighed, taking in the crisp air and exhaling. All was still.   
One image shifted into another, and Mycroft found himself ducking through the doorway of a small, grey-stone house. A low-levelled hallway stretched out in front of him, lowly lit and comfortably warm.   
He wandered idly for a minute or so, taking in every detail, every inch of the place. Somehow it reminded him of something - something nostalgic and quaint - but he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on it. He supposed he might have been there as a child - the Holmes' often spent their holidays in traditionally antique lodgings in the countryside. Him and Sherlock would spend their days fishing, or swimming in the lake (nicely warmed by the persistent sun). Sometimes they'd even be allowed to wander into the nearby forest to find sticks for bows and arrows and such. Eurus had always preferred to stay behind, gazing at insects with a magnifying glass or dissecting leaves. Even at the age of four, she had a mind far superior to the rest of the family.   
A pang of guilt and fear struck him as he recalled the youthful face of his sister. She'd looked so pale, so gaunt in that labyrinthine prison.   
All thoughts of his family, however vanished as he reached the end of the corridor. A heavy, wooden door stared back at him, held shut with an iron latch. Carefully he lifted the handle, and gave the door a cautious push. It creaked awfully as he opened it, as though it had barely been touched for decades (which was probably true).   
The door opened out to a sizeable kitchen: perfectly useable, yet furnished with aged kitchenware, barely a modern appliance in sight. A large, oak kitchen island dominated the room. In the exact centre, elegantly placed, sat a vase of fresh flowers: snowy white roses; sweet pink peonies; eggplant-purple daisies. Mycroft breathed in their intoxicatingly floral scent and leaned forward for closer inspection. As he drew closer, he noticed a plain, white card - identical to the one which he'd sent Gregory less than a fortnight before.   
"My deepest love."  This one read.   
Mycroft started at the creak of the door behind him, only a momentary, quiet sound. His body froze entirely. He hadn't expected anything else to join his drowsy stupor.   
"Mycroft Holmes. Fancy seeing you here." Mycroft spun around to face the tall man leaning against the doorframe. His posture relaxed, perhaps even cocky, with his hands carelessly thrust in his pockets and legs crossed jauntily. Every inch of him oozed perfection, his sleeveless arms tanned and muscular, chocolate-brown eyes illuminating a beautiful face with the most delicious lips, lifted in a practically saucy smile. 

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft breathed.    
Except it wasn't. Well, it was, yet he seemed twenty years younger, with deep brown, wavy hair and an air of spry youthfulness about him. For a moment, he panicked. However at a glance around the kitchen, he caught his own reflection in a mirror (from whence it came, he couldn't imagine). The man Mycroft saw reflected was quite the same as the one before him (in the sense of age). His hair, thicker and a deeper red and his eyes, far less cold, far less calculating. 

"Welcome home, my love." Greg murmured, his voice smooth like caramel. Greg toyed with his bottom lip teasingly, and Mycroft thought how he'd very much like to kiss him, to rake his fingers through his lovely hair, to be closer, closer to the man he's so willingly fallen for.   
He took a half-step forward, and Greg did the same, both men eyeing each other attentively.   
Apparently Greg could barely wait a second longer, for he closed the space between them and drew Mycroft into a tight embrace. Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut as Greg set the pace, pulling the auburn's waist in towards him, then slowly working his way up to the top. Mycroft's breathing increased rapidly, his heart racing out of control. He looked down at Greg's pretty lips, naturally prised apart and waiting.   
"Gregory..." He sighed. Greg planted delicate kisses along Myc's neck, causing him to shiver at the affectionate touch. The auburn took up his lover's head in his hand, enjoying the feel of his hazel-brown hair through his own long fingers.   
Greg's lips brushed across Mycroft's cheek, advancing towards his mouth slowly, desperately prolonging the action. Mycroft grew impatient. His desire was so pressing, it was a miracle he hadn't torn the clothes straight off the other man's body.   
It was a blessed relief as their lips met, crushed together with loving urgency.  
"God, you're beautiful." Greg gasped. Only a fraction of a second of breathing time passed before they met again. Mycroft sucking gently on Greg's bottom lip. Greg carefully guiding Mycroft backwards to the kitchen island. Feeling the side of the wooden bench against his back, Mycroft hopped himself up onto the counter to face Gregory.  
Greg smiled, flashing Mycroft a look of pure impudence. The auburn stretched out his legs and hooked them around Greg's waist. Greg ran his hands up Myc's thighs as he was pulled closer.   
"I..." Mycroft stopped to gasp as Greg's hands brushed his inner thigh. "I think I love you." 

 

***

A few intrusional beams of sunlight broke through the curtains, washing over Mycroft's eyelids. The dream-world slipped away from him: like trying to hold water, he couldn't bring it back. He blinked a few times at his ceiling.   
For once, the room wasn't cold. Instead, a pleasant warmth swept over him, and he almost considered throwing off the covers.   
As his mind fell further into consciousness, Mycroft grew better aware of himself. He had a thumping headache, and for whatever reason was still wearing his shirt in bed - a habit which he disapproved of greatly. The room gave an alarming swing. Dizzy? Why?   
Hangover.  
Recovery position, was his first thought. In that case, if he did throw up, he wouldn't die of asphyxiation. What a dreadful way to die that would be.   
Mindful of his pounding head, Mycroft heaved himself onto his side. At first, image and thought didn't quite come together: all he could see was a human-shaped lump, and he had no clue as to why it was there. Then, as the person came into focus, he nearly shouted. Greg Lestrade was in his bed.


	9. Chapter Nine - An unexpected awakening

Mycroft's stomach gave an alarming lurch as he took in the vastly abnormal situation in which he had found himself. The smallest sounds echoed around his head, which felt clouded as though someone had pumped it full with thick, black, smoke.   
How on Earth had he landed in such an unexpected arrangement? Surely he hadn't drunk himself into ludicrousy? The mere thought of it brought on a fresh wave of nausea. On reflection, the Vodka-pomegranate shots had been a tad frivolous, but Mycroft knew his limits. Or at least he liked to believe he did.   
So what had done it?   
A soft mumbling from the sleeping man snapped Mycroft back to his senses. A thousand questions scattered through his mind as he struggled to make sense of it all - his thoughts, disordered and confused. Anger was his immediate instinct, for he could not recall ever inviting Gregory to stay. Unfortunately given his sickening hangover, it seemed terribly likely the invite had been given. Anger turned instantly to fear - what could possibly happen when the other awoke? Another painful ache swept his weary brain. He needed water desperately, but there was simply no chance of him risking waking Greg up.   
Greg stirred a little more. He did look wonderfully peaceful: arms stretched out lazily, his hair tousled and unruly from sleep. Like dust in the wind, the dream drifted into Mycroft's mind. Eyes shut, he pictured Greg standing at that doorway, an intangible beauty. It had been tender and loving and, oh my was it sexy. But, of course, a mere dream. 

Mycroft's stomach continued to churn, and the need for water became unbearable. Keeping his eyes locked firmly on Greg, Mycroft slipped away, quiet as a mouse (albeit a very large, floorboard-creaking mouse). He stumbled out into the corridor, staggered down the stairs and swayed into the kitchen, where he filled himself a glass of hot water, tipped it away and re-filled it with cold.   
Mycroft took small sips. 

***  
Upstairs, Greg tossed and turned for a while before blearily awakening. He rubbed his eyes and took in the bedroom (it had been so late and so dark, he'd barely glanced at the room the night before). The room was surprisingly simplistic - cornflower-blue carpet, a few paintings on the wall - hardly the extravagance he'd expected from Mycroft. And where was he? Already downstairs, Greg supposed. The antics of the night before were probably taking their toll.  
He shuffled his way out of bed, and wandered aimlessly round the bedroom. It was a little disappointing, not waking up to the sight of Mycroft...

***  
Mycroft meanwhile was pottering about the kitchen, making a large batch of toast and humming 'On Top of The World'. He slotted brown slices of bread into the toaster with a flourish, then hopped across to the fridge for butter. Mycroft couldn't quite remember the last time he'd been grocery shopping. Whilst he'd been on sick leave, Anthea had arranged for everything to be bought online and delivered to his door, but now his position was reinstated, the kind gesture had come to an end, and so Mycroft found himself without butter or even jam. Dry toast would have to do.   
As he began to prepare a breakfast tray with coffee and cream, a low thudding came from upstairs: Gregory had awoken.   
Mycroft inhaled deeply, trying to calm his turbulent thoughts. Above all, his anxiety was the trait Mycroft most despised. As practically the entire British government, it was deemed imperative that he control his emotions to the highest degree: appear emotionless, act for the greater good no matter what the potential collateral damage. This facade he had successfully maintained for years. However no matter how concealing the mask, the fear which he so often felt inside did not fade.   
The creaking and thudding from upstairs grew louder - Mycroft wondered if Greg had found the bathroom. It perhaps would be hospitable to head upstairs and point it out, the auburn considered, however as he made up his mind to do so, he found himself interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door.   
"Eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. Do people not understand Tradition any more?" He muttered in annoyance.   
"Still in my dressing gown. Bloody fantastic."   
Having retrieved the key from beneath a plant-pot, Mycroft opened the door sharply. Darkening the doorstep with a look of irritable smugness: Sherlock.  
"Morning, Brother mine. Might I ask why you are still in your dressing gown at this late hour? No, don't answer, you clearly have a hangover. Good lord, my brother with a hangover - is that what you get up to, these days? Partying your sorrows away? Oh don't look so angry, it makes you look even larger than you already are. I know you've not been at a party. Where is he?"  
"Where's who?"   
"The man you slept with last night. Obviously he's here somewhere as there's still toast cooking - you'd never let a date go home without breakfast."   
"William Sherlock Holmes, you are the most insolent man I've ever had the misfortune of knowing."  
"Can I remind you, knowing me is quite an unavoidable situation-"   
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
"At least do me the decency of telling me the purpose of your invasion."   
"Mrs Hudson has invited the both of us to dinner. Something along the lines of bringing us together after our 'debacle'."   
"And you've had to visit me personally to tell me this because...?"   
"Mrs H ordered me to. She's outside in the car - she said she wouldn't go out and buy milk unless I came."  
"How does this not surprise me? You have intruded upon my weekend simply because you are too lazy to go outside and buy milk."  
"Yes."   
"Well. The deed is done. Now leave me in peace, Sherlock." Sherlock turned to leave, and was almost out of the door when suddenly, a noise caught his attention. He spun back round, only to see Mycroft frantically trying to shut it. Sherlock stuck his foot inside.  
"Sherlock! Get your bloody foot out of my door!" The poor wooden thing was buffeted violently between the two brothers, Sherlock trying to open it and Mycroft, to close it.   
At once Sherlock froze. Through the smallest of gaps, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Greg running back up the stairs. Mycroft took advantage of his brother's confusion, slamming the door squarely in his face.   
"Mycroft! Mycroft?!" Sherlock's voice was muffled through the thickness of the door.   
Mycroft nearly collapsed against the door, drained completely by the residue of his hangover and the sheer awkwardness of the situation. Sherlock knew! His awful brother knew and would now tell anyone willing to hear (or even not). He buried his face in his hands, exhausted.   
"Mycroft...? Hey... I know your brother saw me, but... It's gonna be okay." Greg descended the stairs again. He placed a comforting arm around the auburn, who nestled his head into his shoulder.   
"He's just so... Exasperating. He'll tell everyone I'm sure of it. Oh god - what if I've ruined your place at Scotland Yard?"   
"Don't you worry, love. Sherlock may be a bit of an arse, but I know he cares. He really does." Greg enveloped Mycroft in a warm hug. "Can I smell toast?"   
"Yes... There's nothing to go on it though." Mycroft offered a weak smile.  
"I don't mind just toast and butter - that's fine with me."   
"I don't even have butter."   
"Ah."   
"I do have bananas, though."   
Bananas on toast. It worked well enough. Greg made a fresh cup of coffee for the both of them (the first had gone cold) and sat down opposite Mycroft.   
"Do you remember the coffee you had last night?"  
"I had coffee?"   
"Irish coffee. With more than enough whiskey I believe."  Greg chuckled.  
"So that's what did it... You know... I had a funny dream last night. You were in it."   
"I was? What happened?"  
"Oh... Nothing much..."


	10. Chaptee Ten - MH to GL

I am surrounded by imbeciles. How can I possibly be only fifteen minutes into this meeting? - MH

Imbeciles? I thought you said you had a meeting with NATO this morning? - GL

Exactly. I can't bear this mindless drivel... - MH

Myc, I'd love to help, but surely you're meant to be... Y'know... Listening right now? - GL

Certainly not. - MH

Mycroft... - GL

It's hardly *important* what they're discussing. Nuclear weapons and such - MH

Hardly important? You shock me sometimes, Mr Holmes - GL

You know you love it though - MH

That was... Surprisingly flirtatious - GL

Is this a problem? - MH 

Well... No. - GL

I suppose the only option from here is to continue, then. - MH

Hmm. Just a heads up, I am also meant to be involved in a meeting. - GL

Gregory! Put your phone away at once. I can't be responsible for putting you in any kind of trouble - MH

You're texting too!! - GL

I mastered the art of texting inconspicuously long ago. There's no chance of anyone noticing me, that's the difference! - MH

It's an office safety briefing and the whole building is here. I'm sat in the middle. Can my texting be excused? - GL

How visible are you? - MH

Practically invisible. Some crazy lad keeps questioning every practice - it's keeping everyone distracted enough - GL

Okay. You've convinced me. Now where were we? - MH

I do believe you were about to seduce me by text. - GL

Ah yes, I do remember. - MH

Go on then, Mr Holmes... - GH

Mr Holmes? Tad formal for you? - MH

Alright then. Myc - GL

Of course I don't *mind* being called Mr Holmes. After all, I do prefer to call you Gregory... - MH

And I don't mind that at all - GL

Sarcasm?? - MH

No! No - it's difficult to get tone across through texts. Are you around tonight? - GL

If I can cancel 'platonic dinner with Lady Smallwood' tonight, then yes - MH

You have a date with Lady Smallwood? I almost feel dejected  ;) - GL

Oh come off it. You of all people know  my preference in gender. If she weren't quite as important as she is, I'd be tempted to have her removed by "accident" - MH

Now wouldn't that be sexy... Mycroft Holmes, able to pick off people at the flick of a button. - GL

And it's only the truth. You'd better watch out, Mr Lestrade... - MH

Had I now? But where would you be without me, might I ask? - GL

Off with some pleasant Spanish lad I expect. Did I tell you I've been ordered to Spain next Tuesday? - MH

You cheeky sod! And no, I can't remember you telling me. - GL

Fancy a trip, dear? I can make the necessary arrangements with the yard for you. - MH

Did... You just invite me to Spain? - GL

That was the general idea, yes. - MH

... - GL

Gregory? - MH

I'd love to come, Myc. I really, really would. - GL 

Well then, 'It's a date' (as the saying goes). Tuesday to Friday, southern Spain. - MH

I'm guessing you have a fair amount of work to do out there - GL

A few conferences, yes, but I do have Thursday completely free. - MH

Excuse me whilst I implode with happiness... - GL

Please don't. I was rather hoping to invite the attractive-human Greg Lestrade , not a blown up version. - MH

"The attractive-human" - is this your pet name for me now? ;) - GL

If that's yours, what's mine? - MH

Handsome smart-arse? - GL

I'll have you know, my arse is not the smartest part of my anatomy.   
Now, about this evening. I texted Lady Snallwood to cancel just a moment ago and, thank God, she's replied that her mother is ill anyway. - MH

Her mother is ill? *oh* what a shame. - GL

Have a heart, Gregory. - MH

Oh. Um... Sorry. - GL

Joking! Goodness it's impossible to put across any form of tone on these damned devices. - MH

You could always use emoticons { :) :( ;) :/ } - GL

Or I could not. - MH

Always the traditionalist :) - GL

Not always ;-) - MH

Why have you given it a nose? My nan uses noses... - GL

It's a face. It *needs* a nose - MH

*rolls eyes* So, plans for the evening, then. I was thinking dinner and then theatre? I think Evita's on. - GL

Evita? Goodness me, haven't seen that in years. I of course saw the original London cast perform it (Elaine Paige and David Essex). - MH

The evening's on me, but I will have to ask you to take advantage of your position to get us some tickets - they're sold out - GL

Perfectly fine with me. Thank you, by the way - MH

It's a pleasure. I've been aching for some theatre for months now. - GL

"Don't cry for me Argentina" - MH

"The truth is I never left you." - GL

"All through my wild days." - MH

"My mad existence." - GL

"I kept my promise." - MH

"Don't keep your distance." - GL

Brings a tear to my eye ;-) - MH

This evening can't come soon enough. Also, you're still using emoticons? - GL

If I can use them to express myself, I don't mind them so much. Used to excess, they're intolerable things. - MH

I can agree with you on that.   
The meeting's nearly over now. - GL

I'm stuck here for another two hours. Anything interesting you're working on? - MH

A dead man was found in the storage of Madame Tussaud's. - GL

Is it wrong of me to laugh at that? - MH

The killer had dressed him up in a batman costume to blend in with the other waxworks - GL

I don't care if it's wrong of me to laugh. I'm laughing (internally of course, I can't give myself away).  
Is my darling brother on the case? - MH

Naturally. - GL

Give him my best wishes. That'll annoy him - MH

Will do! - GL

Until later, my dear. Wear something nice x - MH

I always look nice ;). See you x - GL


	11. Chapter Eleven - Reflections

Greg impatiently tapped his steering wheel as the cars continued to crawl at a snail's pace across the M25.  
It was a scorching hot day (well, as hot as England could get) and the air-con in Greg's dusty old Ford Fiesta had finally given up the ghost. What remained of a Buxton water bottle now lay discarded in the seat beside him, cloudy and dripping with lukewarm condensation, which by a surprising coincidence was also exactly how Greg felt.   
He was already twenty-five minutes late to the airport, and the traffic still showed no signs whatsoever of clearing. Mycroft wouldn't be pleased, that was certain...  
He found it difficult to comprehend what him and Mycroft's position was exactly. Every move had been on the spur of the moment, every interaction had seemed to further things both delightfully and worryingly in equal measures. Who could have known an month and a half ago, that none other than D.I. Greg Lestrade would fall into the loving clutches of the British Government himself? It was entirely unthinkable! The uptight, snide, bastard brother of Sherlock Holmes!   
It had taken one meeting to change all of that.   
He remembered the very moment Mycroft had entered the room, dressed to perfection, pristine, not a thread out of place. Beautiful.   
"Eyes the warmest shade of ice." Greg murmured to himself, recalling the same words which flitted through his mind each and every time he looked at the auburn - something which happened remarkably often. Greg could stare at Mycroft for hours on end, never tiring of what he saw: fox-like hair; strong, inquisitive eyes; a diamond-rare smile.   
Greg had firmly placed that smile as the Eighth Wonder of The World.   
That side, of course, was at least one layer beneath the heartless exterior which previously was the only thing visible to Greg, as it was to most - save perhaps Sherlock. Later by layer, shard by shard, Greg was determined to melt the iceman, to unlock him entirely.  
The key was in the lock, (so's to speak) at this point. The key fitted perfectly well, yet had jarred a little on the first attempt. In time and with strategy, a little wriggling might persuade it to turn...  
Just how long it would take was aggravatingly indeterminate.   
So far, they'd had four dates, fifteen "chance meetings", three coffee mornings, one accidental drunken stay-over and lots of kissing.  
All of this happened within the space of one and a half months.  
One and a half.   
And now, Greg was on his way to the airport to spend four days in Spain with him. Admittedly, it was a work-focused trip, and Mycroft had asserted to the Yard that Greg was going with him as a private bodyguard of sorts ("He's the only one of your inadequate force that I have any form of trust in.", Mycroft had explained). However, Greg knew that he wasn't only there to protect. He had Thursday to look forward to for that.   
Still, things were going absurdly fast - one minute, Mycroft Holmes was the occasional subject of a joke in the office, the next, he found himself kissing the auburn with as much passion as he would a long-term lover - on bridges, in cars... Greg had fallen for The Government like a schoolboy for a celebrity.  
This is a work trip, not a holiday.   
He reminded himself.  
But Thursday is...

Without the aircon, the heat was intense, beating down through the thick wind mirror. At this rate, he'd be tanned before the plane even took off.   
He would've opened the window, if it were able to be opened - it was a very old fiesta - a present from his late Granddad who no longer found the use of it in his declining years. The money was there to buy a new one, but nostalgia prevented him every time he took it through the car wash, as it would come out looking a little less dusty, and a little more like the car he'd grown with.  
Lazily, he flicked on the radio, and the familiar BBC2 jingle floated through the car.  
"Good Afternoon, you're listening to Steve Wright in the afternoon on BBC Radio 2..."  
The car engine ticked over patiently as the motorway stacked up.   
"...Okay, we have a call from a Mister Michael Holmesbury, how are you today, Michael?..."  
"Bloody song requesters..." Greg murmured. He listened to BBC2 specifically to escape the hideous modern music other stations projected 24/7 - the all request hour utterly defeated the point. He leant forward to switch it off when suddenly, he froze.

"...Good Afternoon, Steven. I am perfectly fine, thank you..."

No. It couldn't be...

"...that's great to hear, Mike - can I call you Mike?'

'I suppose that would be agreeable.'

'So, up to anything nice today, Mike? Enjoying our miniature heatwave?'

'Personally I prefer the cool. However, if it pleases a certain someone, then I am at least happy for them.'

'You're rather cryptic, Mike? Can you tell us anything about your 'certain someone'?'

'Nothing that could be said on live radio in front of the nation.'

'Haha, that's what we like to hear... Do you have a message at all?'

'As a matter of fact, I do. Gregory, I know you're listening to this broadcast. Would you please hurry up? The gate opens in half an hour.'

'...that. That's a very... Unique message, Mr Holmesbury. Well, I know all of us here at the BBC hope Gregory gets to you on time! Is there a song you'd like to request?'

'Dreams, by Fleetwood Mac. Thank you.'

'Can you tell us the reason why, or is that also classified information?'

'Top level security, I'm afraid.'

'Haha! Here you go then, Mike. Dreams, by Fleetwood Mac..."

"OI! Get a move on dickhead!" Greg snapped back to his senses, as behind him, drivers angrily pounded their horns. At last, the road had sprung back into life, and Greg had been sitting there, staring at his radio.

Panicked, he instantly tried to move.  
The handbrake was on.

"Shit!" He waved apologetically to the man behind him, who replied with little more than a specific finger.  
Handbrake off, he urged the old car forwards as the engine kicked into life. He only got a few meters before, with a distinct clunking sound, the damn thing stalled.  
Rattling off profanities, Greg slammed the handbrake back on, shoved it into neutral and tried to re-start the engine.   
That's when the engine exploded.

(That's what it sounded like, at least)

Greg leapt out, slamming the door behind him. His anger got the better of him as he gave the wheels a kick for good measure.  
"Fucking car! Bloody stupid thing...!"

"Look, mate, I gotta be somewhere this afternoon!"   
Greg glared at the driver: built like a tank, a black tattoo of a scorpion bordering his eyebrow.   
"I've had a breakdown, okay mate. And for the record, I also have places to be today."  
The man stared darkly at him before returning to his car.  
Greg pulled his mobile out of his pocket.  
"Mycroft...? Hi. I've had a breakdown..."

Ten minutes later, Greg was sitting on the bonnet of the car, ignoring the horns and shouts from the pile-up behind him. He'd even flashed his police ID at a few of them, to little effect.   
At last, from the opposite direction, he caught sight of the blue lights of the police car coming to collect him. Grabbing his suitcase, he locked the car and left it by instruction of Mycroft (he'd already arranged a team to collect it).   
"D.I. Lestrade! Fancy getting yourself into this mess..."  
"Well, let's get me out of it, Rodney. Only thing is, we're in the wrong direction."  
"Holmes has ordered the closure of this road. You'd better get used to being on the wrong side of the road anyway, Greg - I hear you're off to Spain. Alright for some." Rodney chuckled.  
"Something like that, yeah."

                              ****

"Suitcase?"  
"Right here."  
"Hand luggage?"  
"In my hand."  
"Passport?"  
"In my hand luggage."  
"Definitely?"  
"I've checked five times Myc!"  
"It's an easy enough mistake to make - 10% of holidaymakers in the United Kingdom forget it. After you, then." 

As the plane took off, Greg leaned back in his seat, luxuriating in the comfort of the leather. He'd flown in economy class all his life, yet here he was, sipping Champagne in First Class as below, the earth began to shrink into square fields and snaking rivers.  
Mycroft leant over and kissed his cheek lightly.  
"We'll arrive in Alicante at about six o'clock. I know of many excellent restaurants in Xabia for dinner, then we could walk along the sea front?"  
"Sounds wonderful. You don't need to worry about a thing, Mr Holmes. As your bodyguard, I shall protect you at all costs." Greg chuckled, winking at the auburn.  
"Yes, well, hopefully there shan't be any need for that..." He murmured distantly, looking out to the clouds...


	12. La Sangre de un Amante

A/N: This chapter contains violence, blood and minor character death. 

 

"¿Para mi... Un caf-cafe con leche y tostada... con mante-mantequillo, por favor?"

"Sí, señor, perfecto. ¿Algo mas?" 

"Ummm...? Myc?"  
Greg looked nervously to Mycroft, who sat quite comfortably across from him, long, freckled legs crossed and soaking up the Mediterranean sun. A rare occurrence, Greg remarked, to see Mycroft Holmes in shorts - and a supremely pleasant one at that. Not that he didn't like the suits... Naturally this causality hadn't gone quite as far as a t-shirt, and instead he sported a cornflower-blue, cotton shirt - rather fetching too, in Greg's eyes. The only thing which troubled him was the vulnerability it seemed to impose; without his usual pristine tie and waistcoat, he seemed almost stripped of his armour, and Greg was horribly aware of the danger Mycroft could find himself in at any moment. Someone of such importance surely had enemies - of course, Mycroft's work was strictly classified, but intelligences always had some way of finding out.   
Greg also wore shorts, although his were lined with more than enough pockets: one of which, concealing a handgun. Greg found it difficult to forget that he wasn't on holiday. The previous night in Xabia was everything a holiday should be - amber, evening sunset; rolling waves cascading along the shore; excellent dining and above all, the most brilliant man in the world to share it with. All would have been perfect, had there not been the constant touch of the solid metal gun in his pocket. If they were fortunate, Greg had an easy few days ahead of him, yet his optimism had faltered on the plane. The way Mycroft had zoned out, suddenly serious at the mention of Greg's task in Spain, worried him greatly.  
Mycroft's meetings weren't scheduled to begin until eleven, so the two of them had taken a stroll out of the villa and into Pego for breakfast. Only a ten-minute walk, the quiet little town had a quaint beauty about it, in the way that it remained relatively untouched by the commercialism and British influence brought around by tourism. Mycroft had a particular soft spot for the place, with its winding streets and muted colours. He'd spent a few hazy, summers, peppered with biting flies and Sangria, as a resident. Greg on the other hand, for whom travel hadn't featured much (save a typical, mid-20's, drunken holiday in Benidorm), was wary of his lack of the Spanish language, in a place where English was little spoken. Fortunately, Spanish was one of the many languages which Mycroft had acquired in time, and was trying to teach Greg some conversational phrases, such as ordering at a café. Café Vittoria was a lively place on a Spring morning; sun-hardened locals, laughing in bursts of Spanish which made Mycroft chuckle; old men with fedora's and sunglasses, cigarette smoke lingering in the hot air. Mycroft had an... arrangement with the owner, Señor Espinosa, which may or may not have had anything to do with a deduction he'd once made concerning Espinosa and Mariquita, a waitress at the neighbouring café. Since then, drinks were free and only the best produce went into 'Señor Holmes'' orders.  
"¿Algo mas?" The waiter asked again, twiddling his pen impatiently.  
"Uno momento, gracias." Mycroft smiled at the waiter. "I believe you know what 'mas' means, Gregory."  
"Urm. The most?"  
"In the sense of 'mas o menos'?"  
"Oh – more."  
"Si, muy bien. Algo translates as 'anything', so...?"  
"Anything more?"  
"Perfecto. Camarero?" Mycroft gestured to the waiter.  
"Sí, senor, algo mas?"   
"Erm... sí. ¿Tiene pasteles?" The waiter frowned slightly at Greg's less-than-admirable accent.  
"Sí señor. ¿Chocolate o fresa?"   
"¡Chocolate, gracias!" The waiter left. Greg could've sworn he'd heard him laughing.  
A few minutes later, the waiter returned with the various foods they'd ordered. For Mycroft, a simple French omelette with bitterly strong coffee. He was trying to stick to his diet for once, and had been doing fairly well for the past week, up until the waiter placed Greg's plate of chocolate cake on the table. Absent-mindedly, he pushed his food around the plate. Why Greg had ordered both toast and cake he didn't know. It was a nuisance sitting there, all gooey in the hot sun...   
"I'm not sure if I'm gonna want all of this cake - I only asked for it to practice my Spanish. Would you like some?" Greg's face met his with a grin.   
"I ought not to..." The auburn shuffled in his seat. His shape had always troubled him greatly, having been on the larger side as a child, preferring reading to football and having a fondness for cake. This, on top of living with Sherlock Holmes for a brother, had a resounding effect in his later years.  
"Come on, Myc. You're on holiday." Greg gestured around them, wide armed. "Can I at least persuade you to try a bit?"   
Mycroft tilted his head in a gesture which quite clearly meant "you've lead me astray.", but on a moment's reflection, he picked up a fork and ate some of the sticky cake.   
"See? It's nice." Greg chuckled at Mycroft's expression as he gave in to the temptation of cake. Dieting could come later; now was a time to enjoy.

***

Two hours later, Greg was impeccably bored.  
Mycroft's meetings took an age. Minutes felt like decades as a large clock on the wall ticked loudly, and a water filter in the corner gurgled.   
Every five minutes he glanced up at the door to the room adjacent to the cool waiting area, only to sigh and carry on waiting. From the start he was aware this trip was purely for work. Mycroft's presence had made him half-forget it.   
Another, younger, man sat opposite him with his arm propped up on the armrest of the sofa. Wavy-blonde haired; black glasses reflecting whatever he held in his hand. Was it a sketchbook? A magazine? Whatever it was, he kept scratching at it with a black pen, occasionally looking up at Greg quizzically.   
Greg could only assume he was Spanish.   
"...hola?" He tried.   
"I - er - don't speak Spanish." The man replied with an awkward smile.   
"Oh. Right. D.I. Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard." They shook hands.  
"Daniel. You're here for the meeting?" He asked, still drawing on what Greg could now see was a sketchbook.  
"In a way. I'm accompanying the British representative, Mr Holmes. You?"  
"Same as you, really. Here with the French rep."  
"You're French?" He spoke in a peculiar accent - not in a strange way: quite the opposite, but it seemed to dart about as if it had many influences.  
"Honestly, Greg, I don't even know. I speak French, yeah, and six other languages - 5, if you don't count Latin, but where am I from? The world."   
"I've never travelled much. Always wanted to."  
"Oh... Sorry for you..." He mumbled, focusing again on his drawing.  
"Can I ask what you're drawing?"  
"Er. Yes. You."  
"Me? Well... Thank you." Daniel held up the picture to show him.   
"I - wow - I - how much would you want for it?" Greg was astonished - it wasn't every day a random stranger drew an excellent portrait of him.  
"You don't have to pay if want it... I just needed a way to pass the time and there you were." He shrugged his shoulders buoyantly.  
"I - I don't know what to say. Thank you! I suppose you draw often?"  
"You could say that, yeah - oh, meeting's over."   
The officials trawled out of the room, shaking hands and muttering in a variety of languages. Greg caught sight of Mycroft immediately and walked up to meet him.  
"How'd it go, love?"   
"Perfectly well." He leant in and whispered: "I'll tell you more later." Greg nodded discreetly. How much exactly Mycroft could disclose, he wasn't sure.   
"Oh, Myc, I'd like to introduce you to a young man I met out here... err if I can find him... Ah - Daniel!"  
"Heyyy Greg. Who's this?" A smile crept into the corners of his mouth as looked Mycroft up and down.  
"Mycroft Holmes, pleased to meet you." The auburn offered his pale, long-fingered hand, which the blonde accepted with enthusiasm.  
"Daniel drew a very nice picture of me." Greg handed Myc the loose page.  
"You drew that? Spectacular!" Daniel practically glowed at Mycroft's praise. The three men advanced towards the exit.   
The reception area was still flooded with officials, some now joined by assistants. As they wandered through, Greg noticed a few maintenance workers; two men and a woman. Strange. Surely he'd seen one of the men before, a man with a tank-like build and a striking black scorpion tattoo above his eyebrow. Stranger: all three had the exact same tattoo...  
Greg frowned as the man seemed to notice him - whispered something in the ear of the woman, who smiled and passed the message to the other man. 

Then the whole world stilled to slow motion, as all three pulled guns from their overalls.

"GET DOWN!" Greg belted at the top of his voice; people scattered, some dropping to the floor, some too scared to move. He whipped his own gun from his jacket pocket.  
"Put. The guns. Down." He ordered. Slowly, coldly. Suddenly, Daniel stepped up beside him, also armed.   
"You're full of surprises." Greg murmured.  
"Well, life would be rather boring if I wasn't, no?"   
"I order you to drop your weapons to the floor, and get down on your knees with your hands behind your head." Greg said again. No movement from any.   
"This is a warning. Security will be here any moment. I order you to drop your weapons and get down on your knees." He took a second to check where Mycroft was - thankfully, pressed up against a wall behind several other officials. It wasn't strictly D.I. behaviour but he couldn't help but be glad Mycroft wasn't directly in the target zone.  
"This is our warning. Move out of our way, or we will kill each of these women and men until there won't be any left for you to defend. Starting with..." The woman scanned the room. "You."   
"NO!" Daniel yelled, throwing himself in front of the terrified official.   
BANG! The gun fired, explosive sound ricocheting around the room. A few officials screamed out as the blonde slumped to the floor. Dark, almost black blood seeped through his white shirt, an evil stain blooming across his chest. His whole body shuddered again and again and again, legs writhing beneath him as blood continued to pool onto the cool marble tiles.   
Greg forgot about the gang still standing in the room, forgot about the many officials surrounding him. All sounds blurred, his head gave an alarming swoop as he took in what had just happened. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a shooting; only a few months before had the very same, awful happened to poor Mary Watson.  
However this kind, mysterious stranger who drew like a professional, who spoke six languages, who came from the world, could not be dead.   
Again, everything slowed. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the security force piling into the room.   
"Thank you, thank you." He breathed to no-one in particular as he stumbled towards the limp body of Daniel. His blonde hair was streaked with scarlet blood, his glasses; twisted, lenses smashed.   
"Someone call an ambulance!" He shouted. So much blood...   
The official he'd jumped in front of was also knelt beside the blonde's body, face streaked with tears. Greg leapt as someone came up behind him and took his face up in their hands; Mycroft.   
"Greg?! Are you alright?! Oh god, please tell me you're okay?" He looked into Greg's eyes, swimming with terror and pain.   
"I'm fine, I'm fine Myc. It's Daniel... He's... He's..." Mycroft recognised the politician on the other side as the French representative.  
"Je suis désolé, je suis tellement desolé." He whispered solemnly.   
Danie's convulsions subsided as a peace swept his body. In his very last breath, he smiled a weak smiled and murmured to the French man.   
"I loved you." 

                            ***  
Greg buried his head into Mycroft's shoulder, draped in a shock blanket with the auburn's protective arms embracing him. Blue lights flashed around them, and Greg caught a fleeting glimpse of the yellow body bag as it was lifted away into the ambulance.   
The drawing was clasped in his hand, the paper crumpling in his iron-tight grip.   
"I was supposed to protect you - to protect everyone. I was supposed to stop any of this from happening... I-"  
"Shhhh, my love. He died a hero's death. Gallant to the end." He gave him a gentle kiss - a comforting gesture - on the forehead.   
As the ambulance pulled away, Greg stared blankly from the curb. The sirens faded into the distance, faded into the dangerous night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry if that came out of nowhere but I guess we were due some angst...   
> Yeah, I know, late chapter. Sorry - times are stressful at the minute...  
> Hope you enjoyed x 
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. My sincere apologies to the real-life Daniel.
> 
> P.P.S. Hope it was dramatic enough.


	13. Recovery

"Help me! Please! I'm on a plane and everyone's asleep. Help me."  
"Frightened. I'm really frightened!"  
The world gave an alarming lurch. It was bright - sickeningly bright, as if someone had switched on a hundred floodlights and was now directing them inwards to the windows of the airplane. Mycroft squinted, using his hand to shield himself from his blinding surroundings.   
Every seat was empty, every space utterly devoid of signs of others. Except for one; right at the end of the isle, one small child.  
"Please! I'm on a plane and it's going to crash! It's going to crash and I can't stop it!"   
"I... I don't... I don't know what to do..."  
Slowly the light began to fade, and the world came into focus. Mycroft took a few cautious steps forward, swaying slightly with the motion of the plane.  
"Please, help me. I'm all alone and scared and I don't know what to do..."  
He continued to move along the plane, head inclined as, blinking, his bleary eyes tried to focus upon the child.  
"Please, Mycroft! I'm alone. You left me. You took everything from me!" Her voice was harsher this time, more familiar.  
"How do you know my name?"  
"You don't see me, do you? You never did and never will. I always preferred Sherlock - I could make him laugh."  
"Eurus!"Mycroft cried out, leaning against a plane seat as his legs seemed to melt from beneath him.   
"You though: You and Uncle Rudy with your schemes and your orders. You, Mycroft Holmes, who can control a country, can control a prison, but couldn't control the madhouse - or what did you call it? Hell. Yes, brother mine, you can play your games, you can construct your perfect little power structure, but can you control your own family? But, more importantly //now that it crosses my mind//, can you control yourself? Look at yourself. Playing the game. //socialising; branching out//. You call it love, but what is it really? Just another plaything for you to control. Just think about your Gregory dear - why is he here, brother mine? An essential commodity to your travels? Well look where that's got him. Scars leave a mark, brother dear. You of all people should know."   
All over, Mycroft shuddered, his slender hands clenched over the edge of the seat, knuckles waxen from the strain. Each breath felt like fire and he desperately tried to reach for oxygen, until his mind began to fold in on itself and he realised there was none. Masks dropped coldly from the ceiling, speaking unheard words of terror and tragedy. He reached out for one but it was too far, the yellow cup just inches away from his outstretched fingers. Then suddenly he was in a hospital - the clinical smell of antiseptic was unmistakeable. Someone was in the hospital bed - someone with black, curly hair. Sherlock. The cardiac monitor, a simple red line. Eyes closed, face obscured by a yellow oxygen mask. Then he was back in the plane again, reaching out for the mask but it was still too far.  
He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die...

"Mycroft?!"

****

"Mycroft? Honey? Come on dear, wake up..." Greg reached across the plane seat to give the auburn a tentative pat on the shoulder. Mycroft continued to toss and turn, muttering snatches of pain stricken dialogue.  
"Come on, wake up sweetheart..."   
He opened one eye. Then the other.   
"W-where are we?" A broken whisper escaped the auburn.  
"...we're on the plane back home. You just had a bad dream, that's all, love."  
"Fuck!"  
"Eh?"  
"I - I need to get off this plane - I need to - oh god!" Mycroft gaped as he looked out of the window, only to see the endless ocean beneath them.  
"Mycroft, what's going on? What's happening dear?" Greg took up Mycroft's shaking hands in his own. He flinched at the touch, then tried to pull away, but Greg brought him gently back.  
"Look at me, honey. You had a dream, yeah?" Warm, brown eyes met frosty blue. Greg ran a hand along Mycroft's arm.  
"I... I never should have asked you to come." He recoiled, burying his face in his hands. "I put you in danger - danger I fully realised was possible, and like the fucking arsehole I am, I asked you to come here to... to protect me."   
Greg wrapped his arms around the auburn, who still sat rigidly, not at all yielding to Greg's affections.  
"Mycroft, listen. You are not an arse. Believe me, you mean so much to me, Mycroft Holmes. So much. I know we barely know the truth of each other, but we've worked together for god knows how many years and honestly these past few weeks... They've changed things. I'm starting to see you. I know I'm not great at consoling people, but you have to believe me."   
Mycroft collapsed into Greg's arms, unable to speak. The D.I. ran a hand through the other's hair.   
"I'll be okay, Mycroft. It's a terrible thing what happened, but I'm in the force, I see these things all the time... I guess that's just how crappy this world is, y'know? ...Do you think you can tell me what happened in the dream?"   
A sudden sob told him all he needed to know.   
"Look, sweetie. I'm here, we're gonna get though this, okay? We've got a few days off from work anyway, seeing as we're back so early. How about I speak to Anthea?"  
Mycroft suddenly sat up.   
"No! Don't - she'll only arrange more time off for me... I can't spend another month without my work, Gregory, you have to see that."   
"I do, Myc, I do, but I can't see you like this... What if you were to work from home?"   
"Not possible."   
"I won't speak to her, then. I promise. I just need you to know that I'm here for you, yeah?"   
"Yes... How long until this damn plane lands?"   
"Half an hour, why?" 

A few minutes later, Greg settled himself under the blankets, next to Mycroft. He'd fiddled for a while trying to work out how to recline the seats and as a final touch, he grabbed a couple of blankets from the cabinet above and draped them over Mycroft. Soon both men were fast asleep, finding some comfort in the closeness of the other - almost platonically, a mutual empathy.

****  
As the plane touched down at Heathrow, Mycroft woke again sharply. Greg was fast asleep with his head resting upon the auburn's chest, snoring softly, his own chest rising and falling with each breath of oxygen.  
It was pitch black outside - well, the sky was - but floodlights lit the empty runway.   
It was a curse to be a Holmes, Mycroft reflected. A curse which brought danger upon not only himself, but many, many around him too.    
In that moment, he swore to protect the silver-haired man whose head was still nestled in his chest.   
And in that moment, he hoped more than anything in the world, that Gregory Lestrade would always be around to protect him.


	14. Lady Macbeth and Bagpuss Holmes

"One hot chocolate for you, and one soy-milk, vanilla Americano for you. Enjoy!" The young Italian waitress of Olivia's kitchen (who had come to be known to them as Cascata) elegantly placed the tray in front of the two men. Since their first encounter of the place, on a miserable day in Spring, the two had frequented the quaint little spot as often as possible, after work or simply in passing. Cascata and Mara, the daughters of Olivia, were always overjoyed to see them, partially due to a small sort of friendship that had ensued, and partially due to Mycroft's generous tipping. Mara (the elder of the two) often tried to make eyes at Greg, leaning over the counter and twirling a lock of her deep brown hair around her finger. However as the weeks trailed by, and the couple grew in front of them, Cascata came to realise just how slim Mara's chances with Greg were. She could see it; in the way Greg's eyes glowed when he looked at the auburn, when he bit his lip as the were talking, as he smiled his besotted smile.   
Then one day, when the skies were a muddish grey and the coffee machine had broken, Mara saw them kiss. She wasn't supposed to - they were tucked away in a shadowy corner-table, up a small platform - but from the split-screen CCTV, she saw them kiss. Greg himself had made the move - small, chaste - if at that moment she'd blinked, she would've missed it. But a kiss, nonetheless.  
The shock that was upon Mycroft's face in that moment was nothing compared to Mara, who ran into the kitchen, slammed the door behind her and shouted to Casceta   
"GAY! They're GAY!"  
"Sei stupidissimo, Mara. Who is gay?"  
"Listen, listen, listen, listen, Mycroft and Greg! Gay! Kissed!"  
"You did not know?"  
"No!"  
"Honestly Mara, you're supposed to be the older one... Yes, they are a couple. Buono, sí?"  
"Sí, sí. But Cas, you let me flirt with him?"   
Cascata just sighed, still fiddling with the coffee machine which downright refused to kick into life.

**  
"Thank you, Casca dear." Mycroft smiled appreciatively.   
"Anything else? Mama made oat cookies fresh this morning."  
"Go on then." Greg grinned cheekily to Cas, who wandered back into the kitchen.  
"Have your ever played that game where you tell two truths and one lie?" Greg asked, after eating a spoonful of melted marshmallow.  
"I don't believe I ever have... How does one go about it?"   
Greg thanked Cas as she brought the cookie to the table.   
"Pretty self explanatory, really. You tell someone two truths about yourself and one lie, but you don't say which one's which. Then the other has to guess."   
"I see."  
"So... Err. Would you like to give it a go?"  
"Well..."  
"Look honey, I feel like I don't know enough about you - we've been together like this for weeks now. Could be fun, yeah?"   
Mycroft gave him a slightly discerning look, but after a little contemplation (and a playful nudge from Greg's foot under the table), he asked Greg to go first.  
"Okay... I broke my leg when I was four whilst pretending to be a bank robber; I skipped the fifth Harry Potter book because I thought it was too long; I... I realised - shall we say - the 'door swung both ways' when I was fifteen years old."   
"The last is clearly a lie. Your blinking rate increased, you hesitated and this statement was largely different to the other two. The former two statements detailed specific moments of your life, the latter, an age. As an age is easiest to change to become a lie, that is why you chose it. You were in fact... 17, I believe."   
"Trust me to forget your superhuman abilities..." Greg chuckled. "You're right of course. I was seventeen. Dishy lad caught my eye - made my girlfriend at the time horribly jealous. Your turn."  
"Right... I once sunburnt through some striped blinds and Sherlock nicknamed me Bagpuss."   
Greg made a noise which sounded far more like a laugh than the cough he tried to mask it with.  
"Don't you start!" Mycroft sighed. "I once drank tea with Michael Caine and finally, not only did I play Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest, I also performed a rather spectacular rendition of Lady Macbeth of 'the Scottish Play'."   
"You drank tea with Michael Caine?! I'd do anything to have tea with Michael Caine!" The D.I. gasped, dropping his half-dunked cookie in his hot chocolate in the process.   
"So would I." Mycroft murmured, smiling to himself.   
"So you haven't met him... Hold on - so you played Lady Macbeth?!"   
"A long time ago, Gregory. A long time ago."   
"I studied Mac-"   
"Mmph!" Mycroft intercepted the other with a nervous squeak - theatre had made him awfully superstitious about some things.  
"I studied the - er - Scottish play then, years ago at school... Isn't there a part where Lady Macbeth asks the spirits to - erm - erase her feminity or something?"  
"I can remember the entire soliloquy if you must ask."   
"Then I'm afraid I must." Greg teased. "Go on!"   
Mycroft sighed again.  
"The raven himself is hoarse  
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan  
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits  
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,  
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full  
Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.  
Stop up th' access and passage to remorse,   
That no compunctious visitings of nature   
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between  
Th' effect and it. Come to my woman's breasts -"   
The D.I. nearly spat out his drink as he burst into fits of laughter. Mycroft simply returned a wearily raised eyebrow.  
"And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,  
Wherever in your sightless substances  
You wait on nature's mischief. Come, thick night,   
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,  
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,  
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark   
To cry "Hold, hold!"

Greg helplessly tried to compose himself again, but he couldn't help but continue to giggle, despite the auburn's indifferent eye-rolling.   
"It is a pivotal moment of the play, Gregory. I personally see it with the utmost sincerity." Mycroft joked, noticing how attractive laughing made the other man look.  
"Impressive nonetheless... I can hardly remember a word of the play. Right, two truths, one lie... Erm... I've gone completely blank." Greg said, shrugging. "Can you think of anything?"  
Mycroft took a long, calculated look at the D.I. The green ambience of the cafe was bringing out his lovely, brown eyes marvellously, and the sun through the front windows highlighted the little silver flecks in his hair.  
"I can think of three. I think we should continue as we are; I think we should leave in a sexy black car; I think we should repeat what happened after the first time we came here." Mycroft smiled slyly, eyebrows raised.  
"The lie had better be the first one."


	15. Babysitters and Bramble Pickers

One second it was Spring, the next it was Autumn - as they say, time flies when you're having fun, and for Mycroft and Greg, the Summer had been just that. Of course work continued as usual, but in between the meetings and paperwork, the two men often met to dine or for walks in the park. Greg had tried to persuade Mycroft to go for a cycle with him. Mycroft politely declined, and opted instead to see Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of The War of The Worlds at the Dominion Theatre...  
One evening, an amber-soaked day littered with dead leaves and conkers, Greg suggested a picnic in a nearby park. He purchased a bunch of nibbles for M&S, and Mycroft added a bottle of Champagne and two glasses. They were just preparing to leave, when suddenly the phone rang.  
"Brother dear! How are you this fine afternoon?"  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and mouthed "Sherlock" across the room to Greg, who returned the eye-roll. The last thing he wanted on a lovely Autumn evening was an extensive chat with his brother. Unfortunately it seemed choice was not a factor of the situation.  
"I'm quite well, thank you Sherlock. What is it you want from me?"  He waved an arm to the D.I., who promptly put down the thatched hamper and leant against the mantlepiece. The after-work picnic would have to wait.  
"Ah, you see John and I have plans this weekend - shut up, I know you're thinking - and Mrs Hudson was going to look after Rosie until Sunday. She says her friend is ill, however it's clear from the size of her suitcase and her quite franky alarming good mood she's going to some kind of party. Point being, we need a babysitter."  
"What does he want?" Greg mouthed to him, arms folded in annoyance.  
"Shhhh!" Mycroft returned.  
"Is Molly Hooper not available?"  
"Working."  
"Are we your last resort?"  
"Of course not."  
"I'll take that as a yes. Look, Sherlock, you know we love having Rosie with us, but at least some prior notice is required - I need to baby-safe the house. Not to mention, we do have plans of our own."  
"Plans? Mycroft, she's practically your niece."  
Mycroft sighed. "Are you around tomorrow?" He asked Greg, one hand over the phone receiver.  
"Yeah! Why?"  
"Rosie." He uncovered the receiver. "What time does she need picking up tomorrow?"  
"7:30."  
"You're a pain."  
"Thank you."  
Sherlock hung up, leaving Mycroft groaning at his brother's spontaneity. Rosie was a wonderful child really, but babies had never been (and never would be) his area. Not to mention his house was the epitome of not-baby-safe houses. Expensive antiques lined the window sills, a couple of low-down coffee tables had horribly sharp edges, and the floors were either perilously slippery or carpeted with materials far too expensive for a toddler's "accidents". Aside from the safety of the child, Mycroft had no clue as to what to do with her - his idea of a fun afternoon was more in the range of reading one of his crime-thriller novels, rather than finger-painting and baking. He didn't expect Rosie would be interested in the gory decapitations or maimings found in the literature he read (although with Sherlock for a father, who knew). That's where Greg came in. He had a way with children - he could make them laugh, have fun with them. It was very sweet, and Mycroft's heart had a tendency to flutter whenever he saw him with Rosie.  
"Still up for this picnic?" Greg called, with a motion towards the basket.  
"Of course, of course. If we could just prepare the house quickly, though."  
Greg put the basket down again.  
"Sure. How can I help?"  
Over the next half an hour, the two men busied themselves preparing the house. From he garage, Mycroft pulled out his 'baby kit' Anthea had arranged a few months ago after a disastrous visit (Rosie tripped over and Sherlock went into hysterics). It consisted of various toddler items; foam floor matting, a ball pit, bottles and more. Mycroft wondered if Anthea had any children of her own - her own personal life never cropped up in conversation.  
Once the floor covers were fitted into the living room, Greg tried to assemble the ball pit, but ended up with something which more greatly resembled a 'thing' rather than what it was supposed to be. Mycroft looked on with amusement, and a certain appreciation for Greg's tousled hair and rolled-up sleeves.  
"Just follow the instruction book..." Mycroft smirked from the other side of the room, as he knelt down on the floor to fit corner-protectors onto the coffee table.  
"I am!" Greg chucked one of the green plastic balls at Mycroft, and hit him squarely in the face.  
"That was entirely uncalled for!" Mycroft retorted with a sigh. He turned back again to the coffee table, but was interrupted by another ball - a yellow one, this time.  
"There is one flaw in your attack method, Gregory." He said, his voice deeper than before.  
"What's that?" Greg grinned and threw another one in his partner's direction.  
"As you deplete your own ammunition, you are in turn supplying me with it." He picked up the green ball and launched it in Greg's direction. It smacked onto his forehead and rolled back to him.  
"That's just not fair! They're not rolling back to me!" Greg pouted.  
"Come over here and get it, then." Mycroft smirked. He put the corner-protectors down.  
Greg stepped across the room and stooped to pick up the yellow ball from the floor. He crouched down opposite Mycroft, one knee on the floor, and went to scoop up the ball. As he dipped low, Mycroft surprised him with a chaste kiss to the cheek.  
"Missed." Greg whispered.  
"Again, Gregory, you are wrong. That was my initial offensive, used to catch your attention. This is my true attack." One hand behind Greg's neck, he kissed the D.I. strongly, leaving Greg slightly dazed by his partner's suddenness.  
"Just had to, darling. You look quite delicious this evening."  
Greg went to kiss the auburn again, but was stopped by a tap on the nose.  
"No more, my dear, don't you have a job to do? Go have some fun building the ball pit." Mycroft smirked and gestured Greg back to the assortment of plastic poles and netting.  
"You and your bloody power complex." Greg muttered jokingly.

***

"Shhh, Rosie's still asleep." John beckoned the pair into 221B. They shuffled in and crept through to the hallway, Greg closing the door softly behind them.  
Upstairs, Sherlock was in a state of half panic: pacing back and forth across the living room, occasionally picking up the mantle-piece knife and stabbing it back into the pile of letters, all the while being as quiet as possible so as to not wake his half-daughter. He looked up as Greg, John and Mycroft entered the room.  
"Brother! You've baby-safed the house?"  
"Yes."  
"Food? You have food to feed her? Do I need to ask John to buy anything?"  
John sighed behind a resting hand on his face.  
"No, no, I can assure you we are perfectly stocked up."  
"Security measures fully functional?"  
"Of course!" Mycroft tried not to roll his eyes at his brother's relentless worrying. He realised that perhaps from his point of view, Sherlock's panic seemed pointless. However not being a father himself, he recognised that his own view might differ largely from his brother's. Sherlock had taken surprisingly well to fatherhood, in an emotionally sympathetic way, but he tended to stress over the slightest issue, whether it be the fear of a common cold going around or the potential dangers of baby seats in trolleys at the supermarket...  
A few words from John seemed to calm him down a little, but still he offered to carry Rosie down to the car, fasten her seatbelt and double-check her miniature suitcase to ensure nothing was missing.  
"Don't worry guys, we'll look after her." Greg grinned, waving goodbye.  
"Have fun!" John called. Sherlock buried his head in the shorter man's shoulder.

***

"'Ello, welcome ter Buckets Pick-Yer-Own Fruit Farm, my name's Dave. Pick yerself a punnet from o'er there." A middle-aged man in a blue polo-shirt waved the trio into the entrance of the small pyo fruit farm.  
Greg carried Rosie upon his hip, leaving Mycroft to push the empty pushchair. Picking up a couple of punnets on the way, they made their way outside to the rolling fields of all sorts of autumnal fruits: currants, tayberries, apples and blackberries amongst them. The fields were lined by large chestnut trees, which had scattered polished conkers across the ground.  
"Blackberries first?" Mycroft pointed out the thorny bramble bushes to his partner.  
"Blackberries, Rosie?" Greg asked the little girl, who smiled and clapped. Greg grinned back at her and lead the way to the blackberry bushes.  
They picked several of the plastic containers with the dark purple berries. Occasionally Rosie helped herself to them, and Mycroft had to remind her not to eat too many as it was technically stealing.  
"Yes Rosie, you shouldn't eat lots and lots of blackberries now!" He said whilst Mycroft stood next to him. However as soon as the auburn took a couple of steps away, he picked a berry for himself and winked at Rosie as he ate it.  
"Shhh!" He put a finger to his lips, smiling.  
"What's that, dear?" Mycroft turned back to Greg.  
"Nothing, nothing!"  
They spent a few hours picking different fruits and vegetables, in particular some very nice looking peas which Rosie tried to eat raw.  
"Yum!" She said enthusiastically as she went to scoop up more peas.  
"You're meant to cook them first, darling." Mycroft advised the toddler.  
"No!" She retorted. She wanted to eat raw peas.  
"Wait til' we get home, lovely and we'll cook you something nice with them." Greg moved the bag of peas out of her reach. Rosie frowned, but contented herself instead with a conker Uncle Mycroft had found her.  
Finally they checked out the freshly-picked groceries, along with a large Pumpkin ready for Hallowe'en.  
As soon as Rosie was strapped in to the car seat, they set off for Mycroft's home, thinking she would fall asleep for the journey. That was not the case.  
Without too much thought, Greg had placed the fruit and vegetables on the car seat next to her, and right within her reach were the peas...

***

"How does savoury rice with salmon and vegetables sound?" Mycroft offered as he leant against the kitchen counter.  
"Sounds delicious, dear. Need any help?"  
"Can you start shelling the peas?" The auburn asked. He started to make up the marinade for the salmon.  
"Sure... Um... Myc, where are the peas?"  
The two men turned to Rosie. As she smiled back cheekily, the truth dawned upon them...


	16. At least blood at Hallowe'en makes sense

"What do you mean you can't find the fake blood? I thought we bought several tubes at that Fancy Dress shop?" Mycroft rolled his eyes, multitasking both filing and talking to his partner.  
"Yeah we did Myc, but I left most of it at yours... I only have one tube."   
"They're big tubes! Look, I have to crack on with things or I won't be ready in time." He replied, signing several unimportant documents without a second glance.  
"Hurry up then. Am I picking you up from your's or the office?"  
"Office, if you could. My costume's here so we can go straight on to the Diogenes Club."   
As a sort of tradition, each year Mycroft arranged the Diogenes Club annual Hallowe'en function - an interesting evening for the few younger members and one or two of the more adventurous elders. It was small, secretive and wickedly good fun, largely due to the break from the other tradition of complete silence. Of course, that silence was an essential asset to the club, however the Hallowe'en get-together held a rule put firmly in place by Mycroft himself: any subject may be discussed, as long as not a word of it is true. The result of which was extremely wild statements, further estranged by the extortionate amount of drink provided.  
Just two years previously, 89-year-old Arnold Durves explained to him with grave sincerity that the planned proceeding in the event of a terror attack upon MI5 was to release a herd of radioactive slugs in the direction of the attackers.  
In the first year, Percival Gritt (a man whose occupation had never quite been revealed), orchestrated an intricate web  of gossip and scandals, which involved such a spectrum of people, from Tony Blair, to the florist on the corner, to the woman that narrated 'In the Night Garden', that for months afterwards, many tried to discover if a single word of it was true.

                                 ***  
Mycroft finished what needed to be done immediately within ten minutes - the rest could wait until tomorrow. Only a few people were left in the building, amongst them Anthea, who had her own Hallowe'en celebration to go to, which Mycroft was thankful for. Usually he invited Anthea as his plus-one, as he couldn't think of anyone else to invite and Anthea had been single. Somewhere over the course of the past year, she'd found herself a relationship. Mycroft chose not to deduce anything - Anthea was everything to his professional life, she deserved her privacy.   
This year Greg took her place. He was meant to be attending as 'Vampire in nice suit', but Mycroft wondered what the end result would be, seeing as his partner had already used an entire tube of fake blood.  
After a quick check of the security footage so as to not be seen by an unexpecting colleague or cleaner, the auburn removed his professional suit and replaced it with a sharp, white suit; a black silk tie and slim-fitting, black leather gloves.   
He reached into a small makeup bag and pulled out a pot of thin, darkly pigmented fake-blood. He also picked out a small silver hip flask containing freshly-made Kensington gore (syrup, cornflour and food colouring).   
Standing in front of a mirror, he took the first pot and threw the contents over himself, creating a satisfying bloodstain across the crisp whiteness of his suit. The hip flask, he dropped into his trouser pocket.   
As a final touch, he ran a black eyeliner pencil across his eyelids and checked his reflection side-to-side in the mirror. Perfect.

                                 ***  
"Evening my love." Greg stepped out the car to open the door for Mycroft, who exclaimed his appreciation for Greg's costume.   
"Are we both Vampires then?" Greg wondered aloud, motioning the fake blood on Mycroft's torso.   
"Cannibal, Gregory dear. Of the sophisticated kind."  
"A vampire and a cannibal. Works rather nicely, doesn't it?"   
"At least we wouldn't fight over what to have for dinner."  
"Mm human flesh. Delicious..." Greg winked.   
"Ever tasted Kensington gore?"  
"What's that?"  
"Pretentious name for fake blood. Made of syrup and cornflour - I also added some vanilla extract." He took the hip flask from his pocket and drank some, delighted at its macabreness.  
"Can I have some?"   
"Of course." Mycroft raised the hip flask again and drank some more, leaving Greg confused for a moment before Mycroft leaned in to kiss him. Greg tasted the sweetness of the bright red syrup, made all the more delicious by the subtle vanilla.  
"Just like Vampires." Mycroft giggled adorably.  
"You creep me out sometimes, honey."  
"You love it though."

                                  ***  
The couple entered the car, Greg driving and Mycroft giving directions to the Diogenes Club. It was already dark; showing signs of a thunder storm, perfect for the occasion.    
"I need to pick up some fuel."   
"That's fine - there's a petrol station on the right."   
Greg filled the car whilst Mycroft wandered across to the small shop for a bottle of water.  
He pushed the door (then, realising it was a 'pull', not 'push', pulled it) and entered. As soon as he walked in, Mycroft knew something wasn't quite right. It was eerily silent, save the low hum of the refrigerator. Several of the shelves had been ransacked: sweet packets and chocolate bars littered the floor. He glanced out of the window to see Greg still filling up the car.   
"Hello?" he called out carefully. A second later, he jumped as a muffled squeak from the back room replied.   
"Gregory!" Mycroft called out the shop door. Quickly, his partner joined his side.   
"Everything ok?"  
"No. There's someone in the back room - I think they're tied up or something."  
"What the hell? Call the police."  
"You are the police!"  
"I'm a bloody Vampire tonight, Myc, call the police!"  
Greg took a sweeping glance at the shop, then, content that there was no immediate threat, he seized a bottle of wine from the chiller.  
"Bloody hell Greg, do you really think cheap, 24hr shop wine is going to help this situation?"  
"It's my only defence! What if there's someone armed in there? Besides, if there is someone tied up in there, this might help with the shock!"  
"Careful, love. The police are on their way."  
Very slowly, Greg approaches the door to the back room. The whimpering noises started to get louder. Turning his body away from the opening, he quickly whipped the door open, waited for a moment, then stuck his head around to check for the attacker.   
No such danger appeared, and so Greg bravely stepped across the doorway and into the tiny storage room. There was indeed a restrained person, a young woman, bound to a chair with white parcel-string and with an extra-large-Hallowe'en-special Kinder egg shoved in her mouth.   
"Oh God!" Greg shouted, running in to remove the chocolate egg and the string. The woman started to hyperventilate as Greg got to work, freeing her body from the chair.  
For a moment, she was far too dazed to even see her rescuer, her eyes darting about, terrified.  
"Thank... thank god you saved m-me." She stuttered between hoarse breaths, then, catching sight of the fake blood dripping from the corner of Greg's mouth, she screamed, causing Mycroft to run in as well, which further caused her to yell, as he was still practically dripping with deep red, fake blood.   
"Not now Myc." Greg shooed him out the room.  
"Shhhh calm down, dearie. It's okay now, they're gone."  
"WHY ARE YOU COVERED IN BLOOD?" She yelled, jumping up from the seat, then collapsing down again as her unstable legs gave way.  
"Shhh, you're just in shock dear. Can you tell me your name?"  
"Blood!"  
Greg looked himself up and down. "Oh! Yeah. I'm going to a Hallowe'en party."  
"Ohhhhhhhh." The lady settled as she realised what was going on."...I'm Tara by the way."   
"Greg. My boyfriend's called the police, they'll be here soon. Can you tell me what happened?"  
"Some dickheads came in, high as the bloody Eiffel Tower, demanding all the cash from the register to pay for their fuel. Then they got angry and tried to destroy the place."  
"How did you end up like this then?"   
"I threatened to call the police and they got scared. One of the big ones grabbed me to keep me still whilst the others found the string and the fucking Kinder egg. You know, some countries have banned that bloody chocolate and now I can see why!"  
"Police are here." Mycroft ducked his head around the door. "Sorry if I frightened you at all earlier. All fake blood."  
Lucy nodded at the auburn. "S'alright. Hey Greg, have you got that Kinder egg? I'm starving." 

Immediately the police took hold of the situation, and, after Greg spoke a few words with the police, the two men left for the party.

Many statements of insanity were said that night, whispered over champagne flutes or mentioned in passing across the dance floor, however Greg and Mycroft were certain nothing could quite match the odd circumstances which had truly happened that evening.

Well, nothing other than 'Donald Trump is secretly a turnip'.


	17. A Winter's Tale

It was just past 11 o'clock at night when Mycroft found himself opening his front door to his partner, freezing cold and soaked by the rain.   
It was hammering it down, lashing against the windows and creating a large river in his front garden. Ripples of thunder shook house, rattling the window panes, and very so often, lighting lit up the sky. Mycroft hoped it hadn't struck any of his precious oak trees...  
He welcomed Greg in, offering him a towel as he dripped across the floor tiles.   
"What a night! Police chase through Brixton." Greg complained, hanging his sodden jacket on the coat stand.  
"Oh lord... you're okay?" He motioned Greg into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. A decent cup of tea was in order on a night like this.  
"Half-drowned, but yes, I suppose." He smiled, taking up the hot cup in his hands. "Where'd you learn to make tea like this?"  
"When you're given the job to make tea for the Queen, trust me, you learn very quickly."    
"Since when have you had to make tea for the Queen?!"   
"Ever heard of a Summer internship?"  
"Surely not at Buckingham Palace?!"  
"I say internship... more of a thing that her majesty wanted, so it happened. I was sixteen years old, a prominent member of the various societies which my school held. As soon as the opportunity arose, I sought to be the selected one. Highest grades, outstanding contribution et cetera. Little did I know I'd be pouring tea for her Majesty all Summer and having to answer questions about 'the youth of the day."   
Greg frowned from behind his china teacup.  
"And you didn't make all of that up?"  
"I am a man of many secrets, Gregory. As is the Queen... Shall we take this to the living room?"  
"Well... I could do with getting dry first."   
"You go up then. Fancy some brownies?"  
"Do you have time to make them? Or is this another thing you acquired from your time spent with the Queen?"  
"Erm... Betty Crocker box-mix, dear."

                           ***  
Once the "home-made" Chocolate Fudge Brownies by Betty Crocker™ were in the oven, Mycroft set about kindling the fire in his comfortable sitting room. He nearly dropped a few matches, jumping out of his skin at the violent crashes of Thunder. Once or twice, the windows shook with such force, he feared they'd shatter. He liked storms, but preferred them from a distance: he'd tried the age-old trick of counting between thunder and lighting, and it appeared the storm was directly above his house.   
The logs of wood took kindly to the flames, fortunately very dry from sitting unused. From about November onwards, his fire always came into much more frequent use.  
He sat down for a minute or two, warm and content in the softness of the leather, and the familiar crackling of the glowing coals.   
Then the fire alarm went off.

                                ***  
"Stop burning the house down!" Greg called from upstairs, wearing only his underwear and batting at the alarm with a bath towel.  
"It's the brownies... they're... erm... 'caramelised'."   
"Burnt."  
"Caramelised. They'll be chewy. Put some clothes on."  
Mycroft rushed to the kitchen to rescue what he could of the brownies. About a third was salvageable, the rest... perhaps could come in useful some day as emergency charcoal. What remained, he chopped into squares (smaller than he would've liked) and arranged them on a willow pattern plate.   
"Could dip them in something I s'pose." Greg surprised Mycroft from behind with a side-hug. "They're not too badly burnt." He said, looking at the plate in his boyfriend's hand.   
"These are the ones I thought were okay..."   
"Oh... how about I make some hot chocolate to dip them in? They'll soften up a bit." He opened the fridge and found the milk in the side door. "Do you ever buy groceries Myc?" he wondered, seeing the cold, white emptiness of the fridge.   
"I like ordering groceries in. I just keep forgetting to do it."  
"No, you're forgetting to eat. Let's go to Waitrose on the weekend and we'll get some stuff in."  
"Too many people."  
"Come on honey, it's Waitrose - it shouldn't be too busy."  
"On a Saturday?"  
"How about Thursday? Look, you haven't even got bread. All you have is tea-making supplies and biscuits!"  
"Fine."   
"See? This is an improvement!" Greg grinned. He poured the chocolate into two cups.  
"I've barely done anything!" The auburn protested.  
"You've accepted the fact that you cannot live on tea alone. I think that at least deserves a kiss?"  
"Couldn't possibly argue with that."   
Their lips met, sweet and gentle, but with a steadiness formed by their familiarity with the other. As Mycroft's eyes fluttered open again, he caught the eye of his lover. These were the moments he lived for - loving, strong. The earlier months were love-struck daydreams, but somehow, every day, it seemed more real.  
"Would you read to me, honey? I want to listen to your voice." Greg picked up his cup.  
"Why?"  
"Because it's beautiful. Fact. Also, it's a dark stormy night and I've been through the wringer this evening."   
"Lord of The Rings?"  
"The Hobbit? Your living room looks like Bag End, atmospherically it makes sense!"  
"Atmospherically it makes sense. Never heard that one before." Mycroft laughed, taking his leather-bound, gilded copy of Tolkien's novel from the shelf.  
Mycroft sat himself in the corner of the sofa, next to a shaded lamp, his feet tucked to the side. Greg leaned his head on his shoulder, occasionally sipping his hot chocolate and nibbling at his caramelised brownie.  
"The Hobbit or There and Back Again, A Hobbit's Tale, by J.R.R. Tolkien.  
In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell. Nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole, with nothing to sit down on, or to eat. It was a Hobbit hole and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door, like a porthole..."  
Greg smiled to himself as he listened to his partner's voice, perfectly capturing the beauty of Tolkien's words. He found himself lost in the story, half-dozing as the dwarves arrived and sang 'Far Over Misty Mountains Cold'. Mycroft attempted to sing the songs, but gave up after the second or third verse - after all, 'That's What Bilbo Baggins Hates' didn't lend itself very tunefully in the first place.   
By chapter three, Greg was beginning to nod off, and by chapter four he was flat-out cold on Mycroft's shoulder.   
Mycroft closed the book gently and placed it beside him on the coffee table. He planted a soft kiss on Greg's forehead and smiled to himself. He was so adorable in his sleep...  
"I'm the luckiest man on this damned planet." He said aloud to himself, shifting a little so his numb foot moved from under Greg's legs.   
Soon he too fell asleep, wrapped in thoughts of how wonderful things were, and how wonderful he wanted their future to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, even though it seems like there'a some weird, brownie product placement here, it's actually not. I just love Box-mix brownies. #nooooooshaaaaaaame


	18. Chapter Eighteen - A Rose From Any Other Person Wouldn’t Smell As Sweet

Another typical day at the office; mountains of paperwork, a constant queue at the coffee machine, Anderson being as obnoxious as possible, and Sherlock strutting around, pointing out the flaws in everyone's work.   
Greg had been in the middle of sorting his way through the cold cases when Donavan walked in to present a far more intriguing case: a zookeeper had entered the armadillo pen for a routine maintenance check, disappeared completely for a few hours with no sign on the security footage, then turned up several hours later, confused and disorientated in the donkey enclosure.   
Although perfectly fine at the time, the woman was found dead a week later with clear signs of asphyxiation. Two days after, the zoo advertised a missing boa constrictor.   
"Give us what you've got then, Sherlock." Greg asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.  
"Woman enters armadillo pen, does not leave. Clearly there is some kind of exit from the main area of the enclosure, that much is obvious - a feeding gap? Unlikely. However if I am correct, there is a small doorway for the animals in order to escape from the view of the public. As she went to check the lighting system on the back panel of the pen, she could easily have been dragged inside."  
"And then what - was she drugged?"   
"More likely hit her head on the way in... but how did she end up in the donkey enclosure? Ah..."  
"Ah?"  
"Show me the security footage. I need to know if a wagon of any kind passed the Armadillo pen."   
There was a sharp knock at the door, and Donavan strode into the office.  
"Something nice for you, sir. Wonder who it could be from?" Sally gave him a look of expectancy as she passed over a perfect, red rose with a small note attached.  
'Thinking of you'  
It read. Greg glowed with happiness - such a beautiful gesture...  
"So... who is it?" Sally pressed. "You've been single forever, Greg! This is exciting!"  
"Who indeed." Sherlock retorted coldly. "I'll be back later. I think Rosie and John need a trip to the Zoo.  
"Don't say a word, Sherlock!" Greg called after him. Not the sort of thing you should say to Sherlock Holmes.  
"Oh, before I leave, how's Mycroft doing?"  
"Mycroft?! Why on earth are you involved with Mycroft Holmes?" Sally cut in, shocked. "He's worse than Sherlock!" She added quietly.  
"Nothing! After the whole Sherrinford palaver, Sherlock asked me to keep half an eye on him."  
"Fair enough... anyway, who is this romantic, rose-sender?"  
"For me to know and you to find out."  
"Why are you being all mysterious?" Sally asked. She opened the door to the open-plan area of the floor, cleared her throat and announced to the room "Listen up guys! Greg's got himself a girlfriend!" Some congratulated him with whoops and cheers, a couple lifted their coffee cups to him.   
"Tell us who it is then, Greg!" Adrian Cooksey shouted, followed by mutterings of people wondering the same thing.  
"Keep your nose out, you lot!" The D.I. sighed. It wasn't that he didn't want them to know... it just made things... awkward.   
"I bet it's that Yvonne Parker." Someone near the back offered.  
"Yvonne? Cake shop Yvonne or weird Yvonne?" Someone from the other side asked.  
"Cake shop."  
"Can see why Greg likes her then." Anderson joked. Greg was not impressed.  
"You'd better buy me a donut for that comment Anderson." He replied, arms crossed.  
"Get Yvonne to make you one!" Several people laughed.  
"Anyone who found that funny can make me a cup of coffee! Now get on with what you're all meant to be doing." He returned to his office, shut the door and took out his phone. 

My colleagues are *very* intrigued by the Rose you sent me

He texted.

I can imagine. Do you like it?

What, the rose?

Of course.

It's lovely! It's just... made things a little difficult this morning

I'm so sorry darling. In what way?

Everyone wants to know who my "new girlfriend" is

Typical, typical. How would you feel about going out tonight to make up for it? 

I'm not sure... I'm just so tired...

Okay. Tomorrow?

Gtg. Sherlock's back. Bye x

He put the phone down. It was so difficult... he wanted desperately to tell everyone that he was in a very romantic relationship with none other than Mycroft Holmes, but he was so deeply disliked, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The horrible thing was, he could almost see from their point of view, but that was because they only ever could see the Iceman, the machine without a heart, making painful sacrifices for the greater good. What they would never see was the side of him that Greg knew; sensitive, kind, hilarious... That was another reason why Greg found himself hesitating - that side was his and his alone.

"Right, we've figured out it's not Yvonne. She's engaged to Drew Jackson. So, can you give us any clues?" Cooksey asked as Greg walked past him to the coffee machine.  
"It's definitely not someone you know personally, Adrian. That's another cup of coffee you owe me."   
He met Kath Thompson at the machine.   
"She's a lucky woman, Greg." She smiled sadly and walked away. Greg overfilled his cup.

***  
"The killer is clearly a member of staff - how else could they have known about the opening, the haybale wagon and how to correctly handle a boa constrictor? Get me every record of the employees."  
"Don't you just need the records of those who work with the snakes?" Greg asked wearily. It was turning out to be a very long day.  
"Yes, Gavin! That's correct! Well done! No of course not, the employees all have advanced animal keeping qualifications. They may not have specialised in snakes but would know how to handle one."  
"It's Greg for god's sake! Not in the mood, Sherlock."   
"It's hardly an interesting secret you have Geoff. I hardly see the need to be this stressed about it."  
"No, Sherlock! You don't understand!"  
"-Greg."   
"If this lot finds out I'm screwing your brother, it'll change everything."  
"-Greg."  
"Everything!"  
The room fell silent. Greg suddenly realised where he was.  
"It's definitely not Yvonne then." Someone said.   
"Greg, I'm sorry - no, really, forgive me - I shouldn't have - Greg!" Sherlock tried to follow him, but found himself trapped outside Greg's office, door slamming in his face. 

Sherlock tied up the ends of the case - so complicated it was ridiculous, involving widowed step-mothers, a crazy aunt and some serious childhood loneliness. Each of these added up to a nasty cocktail of jealousy and revenge seeking, eventually resulting in death-by-boa-constrictor. The woman had been knocked out in order for the killer to take a DNA sample. A stupid move, Sherlock remarked as that could've been found any number of ways...  
Hardly anyone would speak to Greg. Whether it was the sheer shock of the announcement or true resentment, he was unsure, but Sally let him know that as long as he made Greg happy, she'd hold off the comments she sometimes made about Mycroft. Anderson tried a weak congratulations and an awkward handshake, then scuttled away to wherever he spent his life.  
Greg couldn't believe he'd told his entire team that him and Mycroft were together - of all the stupid things to do... He just hoped they'd accept it and carry on as usual. He seriously doubted it.  
At the end of the day, Greg tried to leave the building as quickly as possible, but practically ran straight into Adrian Cooksey.  
"Night Ade." He said politely.  
"Mycroft? Seriously? Bloody hell Greg." He looked sourly at Greg and continued down the corridor. 

Greg stormed out of the building and got into a cab. He pulled out his phone and immediately, a string of texts popped up on his screen.

Are you busy this weekend? 

Okay, bye - have a wonderful day xx

My apologies if I've upset you in any way.

Hope the rest of the day was better :-)

I've had a bloody fantastic day, thanks. No, I'm not available today, tomorrow or on the weekend, I have plans.

Greg texted back angrily. He tossed his phone aside and closed his eyes. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Greg spent the evening eating a £1 pack of cookies from the Co-op and watching a crappy reality show about a family that could never agree on what activity to do at the weekend.  
Eventually he decided to read the messages Mycroft had sent him, his anger now cooled and regret rapidly replacing it.

I'm so terribly sorry if I've upset you, love!

Gregory darling?

Please don't ignore me, dear! I'm sorry you had such a bad day... I should have though more carefully before sending the rose...

Greg, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Please just let me know you're okay?

Just tell me what happened 

I'm worried about you

All I did was send a rose, is that so terrible?

Clearly yes. 

Goodnight Gregory. I do hope you can find it in yourself to at least acknowledge me.

I need you.


	19. Chapter Nineteen - I’m Sorry

From her desk (right next to large, panoramic windows), Anthea watched the sun set over London. Ashy, burnt clouds cloaked the fierce layer of amber dotted with wisps of smoked-purple vapour which painted the evening sky. She always enjoyed watching the sunset - it was one of the relaxing parts of her job which were truthfully few and far between. Tonight, however the colours were garish and somewhat painful to look at. Unless she needed new glasses.   
A glance of her watch informed her she could leave - 7:30 in the evening. Always long hours...   
After shuffling a couple of files and re-adjusting her plant pot of succulents, she collected her coat and went to leave the building. She had a date to get to, and this time she couldn't be late. Having not been in any kind of relationship for many years, she was only now remembering how difficult it was to balance things when she could never arrive home before eight o'clock.   
With one last check of her blackberry, Anthea turned to leave. As she pushed open the door, it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't seen Mr Holmes leave - he usually came to say good evening before striding out the door and out to whatever life he lived outside of the office.   
Something had been noticeably different in her boss recently; he smiled more, used his phone more often (and was often found giggling at it) and had started to work harder than ever during office hours in order to leave by the standard 7:30. Up until a few months ago, it was hardly uncommon to find him still working meticulously at 9 o'clock at night. These days, as soon as 7:30 came around, he was out of the door immediately.   
More than a few people had noticed it, but owing to the nature of their occupations, little gossip was discussed. What was clear was Holmes had found himself someone, and nobody had a clue as to who it could be.

Confused as to why he had not left already despite it being 7:39, Anthea put down her bag and wandered over to her boss' office. Gently, she knocked on the door to no reply.  
"Mr Holmes? Are you okay?"   
She pressed her ear up against the door. A few quiet sobs emanated from the room within, and Anthea took the decision to open the door, not entirely sure if she was in her place to or not.   
Inside, she found her boss slumped over his desk, his hands pressed together in front of his face. As she entered, he gulped in air and feebly tried to brush away the tears that were quite obviously running down his face. Anthea had never seen Mycroft in this state - nothing ever phased him.   
"I'm p-perfectly fine, Anthea. Th-thank you for your concern." He tried in vain to steady his voice but it was no use. His hands trembled violently, his eyes were red with tears.  
"I realise I am not in my place to ask, Mr Holmes, but please tell me you're okay? Is there anything I can do to help?" Mycroft looked up into Anthea's worry-stricken face. It was a shock for both of them to be in a situation as unusual as this one.   
"It's... it's nothing, really." He stammered, his voice a little less hoarse. "Just a... lover's tiff." He looked down at his desk. He preferred not to bring his personal life into the workplace.   
"Oh... I see... may I ask what happened?" She asked carefully. She wondered how much risk there was of losing her job.  
"Do you think you could help?"  
"I am your PA, sir."  
"On a personal level, I mean. I must ask you not to tell anyone."  
"Certainly, sir. Considering the number of government secrets I keep for you already."  
"Which you do marvellously."   
"Thank you." She made two cups of tea and set them down on the desk. "So, what happened?"

                                 ***  
Greg stared blankly at the messages in front of him, immovable, set in stone by code. He read each one once, then twice.   
"I need you."  
A lump rose in his throat as the reality of what had happened started to sink in. The words echoed around his mind, and he knew it was true. Mycroft needed him. He was already so broken: by his lonely childhood, his cold and indifferent parents; John believing he'd sold Sherlock, his own brother, to Moriarty; Eurus' games and the nightmares they still brought him.   
Mycroft needed him.  
And he needed Mycroft.  
The man who could make him laugh til he cried, who managed to burn box-mix brownies, who sent him a rose at work just to try to brighten up his day...  
A part of him inside shattered as he realised how much his actions might have cost him - his colleagues could take a long jump off a short pier for all he cared. His relationship with Mycroft was his alone to keep, and yet he'd been so consumed with anger at the difficulty it brought him, he'd been too blind to see that it didn't matter what others thought.   
It was useless, sitting on the sofa eating cookies, Greg reasoned. He needed to make things up somehow - that was imperative - but how?   
He rose from the sofa, clicked the television off and ran upstairs to shower, a plan in mind.

                                   ***

"He's... embarrassed by me. Who can blame him? Emotionless Mycroft Holmes, sliding his way up the power ladder." Mycroft kept his eyes firmly locked upon his tea. Opening up didn't come naturally to him, but if there was anyone he felt he might be able to talk to, it was Anthea.   
"Surely he isn't. Mycroft, to many you hold this heartless facade, but Greg knows the other side to you - the side which I've only seen glimpses of; I know it's there. From what you've told me, it appears his colleagues have a certain view, but honestly, does that at all matter if Greg doesn't see you that way? You really care about him, don't you?"  
Mycroft looked up from his cup.  
"I do... more than anyone else I've met before."  
"Then you should speak to him. Talk about both of your feelings, and make sure that both of you are comfortable. How do you feel about your colleagues knowing about him? You haven't told anyone here."  
"It's rare for our department to discuss such things anyway. Besides, I took him to the Diogenes club Hallowe'en evening."  
"Not a single member of that club works in close proximity to you. Sorry to say it so bluntly, but that doesn't count."   
Mycroft blinked once or twice, a puzzled expression crossing his face.  
"So what you're saying that by being more open myself, Gregory is more likely to be less secretive also?"  
"Well, has it occurred to you that he may believe it would be unsuitable for you yourself to be seen as his partner?"  
"I wouldn't say so. We've... engaged in affectionate gestures in public many times."  
"Still, I'd say it's a good idea to establish how each of you feels about your relationship being known. May I ask how you feel?"  
"I - I don't know. Of course I have no issue with Gregory being known those I can trust, but what if... what if he was ever used against me?"   
"Then it's a risk only you two can decide to take."

                                ***  
Greg clicked the shower dial to 'off' and stepped out onto the bath mat. He combed his hair and peered at himself in the mirror, misted up with condensation. He barely looked as he reached for his perfume bottle, an action which had become natural to him over the past few months. Its earthy smell lingered in the air as he sprayed side to side, and suddenly the memory of months before flashed back into his mind. An evening spent at The Ledbury... an evening which he'd always regarded as his and Mycroft's first date. He'd purchased the Lacoste perfume as a deliberate attempt to catch Mycroft's attention, which it undeniably had. Since then, he'd barely thought anything of the small green bottle, other than a regular staple of his evening wardrobe (he thought against wearing it at work). On this evening, it seemed far more important than it had before.  
Moving into the bedroom, he plucked a suit and shirt from the closet - which of course was the same outfit he'd worn to the ghost walk evening...  
Dressed to the nines, Greg stepped through the front door and out into the bitter-cold, November evening. 

***  
Hearing the soft 'tick' of the kettle boiling, Mycroft got up from the living room and wandered into the kitchen.   
He'd deduced that Anthea had to leave for some occasion (he guessed correctly a date) and thanked her for her sound advice.   
Now, he found himself wrapped up in a dressing gown at home, making a cup of tea with far too much sugar and far too many chocolate digestives. Finding the gentle clinking sound of the teaspoon against china relaxing, he stirred the warm drink for longer than necessary, staring into the cup as white milk blended with amber tea.   
He stood at the kitchen counter for what felt like hours, dipping the teaspoon in and out, eating more than a few biscuits, trying to clear his racing mind of all thoughts and emotions.   
He was halfway through his seventh digestive biscuit when he heard a muffled knock at the door. Peculiar. Nobody other than Sherlock usually turned up at his door at eight o'clock at night.  
Quickly, he tightened his dressing gown around himself and made his way down the corridor, glancing at a small mirror on the wall. His slightly disheveled appearance surprised him - he couldn't let Greg see him like this!  But it wasn't Greg at the door. Surely.   
Although he had of course recognised the precise sound of Greg's Ford Fiesta, and the exact rhythm to which Greg knocked at his door. And balance of probability was a very nice thing indeed. He tried to tame his hair but his natural curl at the front decided to take its own path.   
He slid his hand over the doorknob, cold and solid. With a sudden rush of confidence, he pulled the door wide open.   
"I'm sorry."   
Mycroft fell into Greg's arms without a second thought, his head buried in his shoulder. Greg drew him tightly into the hug, soothingly patting Mycroft's back.   
They stood in the doorway in silence, locked in a strong embrace, each seeking forgiveness from the other.   
Eventually Mycroft raised his head and looked Greg up and down.  
"Why are you wearing a suit? And... can I smell perfume?" He wondered.  
"I'm going to take you out to dinner, and we're going to make things up to eachother. Anywhere you like." Greg said earnestly. "Oh, and I brought these for you." He picked up a bouquet of red roses from the floor next to him and handed them to the auburn who accepted them, stunned.  
"I... thank you, Gregory. It's a wonderful notion dear, but... it's already nine o'clock at night and I'm really in no state for going out." He sighed, smiling lop-sidedly.  
"Well.. well... is there anywhere we could get food and talk?" Greg tried.  
"Have you any supreme objections to McDonalds?" Mycroft offered to Greg's great surprise.  
"Well, yes! No, I mean no, no objections - just, have you ever actually been to McDonalds?"  
"As I've said before, I am a man of many secrets, Gregory." He said coyly, earning a grin from Greg.  
"Okay, perfect... you might want to get some clothes on and then we'll go."


	20. Chapter Twenty - Promise Me?

Mycroft looked Greg up and down again. "Do you need to borrow anything?" he offered, gesturing to the stairs.  
"Yeah... thanks."  
Closing the front door behind him, Greg made his way into the hallway and followed the other man upstairs.  
They entered Mycroft's dressing room - a room devoted to the various suits and other items he wore from day to day, complete with a sofa and tea-making supplies. In other words, a room he could hide in in desperate need.  
Greg sat himself on the sofa with an ungraceful thud, owing to it being much lower than he'd expected. He discarded his jacket next to him, undoing a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt.  
Meanwhile Mycroft was busy in the wardrobe, picking out casual shirts and jeans for both of them.  
Finding the silence a little awkward, Greg ventured to apologise further "Myc, I am so sorry. It was a pretty dickish move of me to send you those texts... I really did appreciate that rose, just my coworkers had a lot to say about it."  
"Please, Gregory," Mycroft began, still half buried between two waistcoats, "I have an awful trait for... worrying too much about things I perhaps should not. You must understand that I realise our relationship brings you certain... trials."  
"Wait - what do you mean? I mean, I was a pretty ungrateful bastard about that rose, but I didn't think you'd read that much into the problems with my colleagues?"   
"Ha - I read into everything Gregory. It's the curse of being a Holmes. From your earlier texts about their interest in the gift, and your later desperation, it was obvious." He smiled weakly as he passed Greg a blue checkered shirt.  
Taking the shirt in his hands, Greg stared at it for a moment, deep in thought. "So... you're saying you're more upset about that than... Ohhhh."   
Both men fell silent. With some effort, Mycroft planted himself next to his partner.  
"...well, yes. You were angry because they found out about us... I hated the thought that in that way I was bringing you pain. I despised myself for it..." Mycroft avoided his boyfriend's eyes, instead twisting his fingers in his lap.  
"Oh honey... you really took this to heart, didn't you?" came Greg's murmured reply.   
"I spoke to Anthea." Mycroft avoided the question, "she said we ought to consider how public we should be, you know, work/life balance and all that-"  
"-Mycroft, love, you need to tell me how much this has affected you. I need to know what I can do to help."  
"-I'm fine, I am perfectly fine, all we need to do is discuss how comfortable you are with-"  
"-shut up about me."   
Mycroft blinked twice, surprisedly. "When I got here, you were in a dressing gown with your hair all over the place like an adorable rabbit and half a packet of biscuits in your pocket. I acted like a prick, yeah, but I need to know you're okay, love... I need to know what's going on in that brilliant mind of yours."  
Finally Mycroft looked up to meet the eyes of the silver-haired man. He tried to keep eye contact as he began to talk, but instantly snapped back down as the words left his mouth,  
"I... I thought you were embarrassed by me..."   
Rougher skin against smooth, Greg held his boyfriend's hand, running his thumb gently across the back of Mycroft's. The other, he placed on his arm.  
"Look at me." he spoke in low tones. Mycroft's eyes flickered upwards, "I am not embarrassed by you, Mycroft. Yeah, some of the people I work with have a problem, but fuck what they think. Half of them are half-wits anyway... I was angry today - the whole office was far too involved in us than the actual case, and I took it out on you."  
"You are the kindest man I've met, Gregory, but-"  
"-Mycroft! I'm not being sodding kind! Do you really think you mean less to me than a couple of people I work with? Really?"  
"Well - I - er - no...?"   
"For god's sake, no! I'd fire them all in a heartbeat if I had to - not that I'd ever make that opinion of mine public... The fact is Mycroft, I couldn't give a toss about them, if it means being with you."   
"I- I don't know what to say-"   
"All the things I just said are probably - no, definitely the truest things I've said in a while."   
"But I - honestly I'm not worth-" Suddenly, Greg shot forward, pinning Mycroft's wrists to the back of the sofa, silencing his partner with a rushed, slightly angry kiss.   
"Don't you dare ever say that you're not worth it, Mycroft Edwin Holmes. Promise me that, at least."  
"...I promise." The auburn whispered, dazed and abashed by Greg's suddenness, "...but you, promise me this. Promise me you'll understand if I don't make our relationship too public?"  
Greg frowned, "Well can you tell me why before I make a promise like that?"   
"My position in this country is of a certain level that I could be considered by many as highly desirable-"  
"-I'll say."  
"-you know what I meant by that." Mycroft broke into a small smile, "I couldn't bear to put you in another situation such as the incident in Spain earlier this year. I won't let you die for me like that artist did for the French politician."  
"And you know I would."  
"Well don't. I feel it my duty to inform you of this, that being with me could put you in any kind of dreadful... bother." looking at his watch, Mycroft stood up and started to change into the outfit he'd prepared, "We ought to get going. 'Donald's closes at 11."   
Greg also stood up, levelling himself with the other man, "Firstly, why on Earth do you abbreviate it as Donald's? Secondly, I'm a D.I. at Scotland Yard. My job is dangerous, and I know how to look after myself. Probably better than you could yourself. So, I'll kindly decline this promise and settle for a reckless life at the side of the British Government." the D.I. grinned, playfully tapping the end of Mycroft's nose with his finger.   
"Certain?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.  
"Certain. Come on, I'll buy you an apple pie."   
"Oh lucky me..." Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked to the door.   
"I could've offered you a bloody happy meal you know."   
"I hear they do tend to make one happy."   
"Yeah, probably because of the weird radioactive chemicals or whatever's lurking in junk food."   
"Shhh you'll put me off forever."  
"What if I were to buy you a chocolate donut?"   
"Well, in that case..."


	21. Chapter Twenty-One - Mothers, Moving In and Muppets

"Alright. Yep. Yes, I know I need to buy the potatoes. Yes, I know Lydia's husband's coming. No, I won't call him my brother in law. Right, bye. Bye Mum. Love you, bye. Yep, I'll let you know if Mycroft can come. I will, I will. Yep, you too. Goodbye mum. Bye." Greg flopped down onto the sofa opposite Mycroft, rubbing his eyes in desperation.   
"Everything okay?" Mycroft grinned, his eyes full of mirth.   
"Hey you, stop laughing! Isn't it your turn to give your parentals a ring?"  
"Me? Mother, yes I suppose, but do you really think father and I have cosy catchups and exchange gifts at Christmas?" he chuckled. "Sherlock's invited me to his little gathering on Christmas Eve. I might even go this year... that is if Mrs H can put up with me... and if I can put up with her after one of her 'herbal soothers'."   
"Yeah, you have to come! The amount that you lot have been through this year, I think it's only right you should have some kind of get-together. Plus, Sherlock's about 30% less of a prick these days. Oh, and I'll be there!" Greg winked at the auburn who rose from his chair to join him on the larger sofa.   
"Which makes all the difference." he rested his head on the other man's chest.  
"If you'd come to last year's Christmas Party, we'd probably be living together by now."   
"Which we basically are already. We buy groceries together, you're here most evenings, and sometimes weekend mornings..." Mycroft replied, manner-of-factly, "how would you feel about making that a little more permanent?"  
Greg's eyes widened, "goodness, Myc - are you serious?! I'd love to of course, it's just - well, I know you like your space."  
"There's too much space here." the auburn tilted his head upwards. "You know, I discovered an entire room I'd never seen before last week. Furthermore, you don't annoy me like the vast majority of people. II think I could put up with you if you were to make the tea every so often."  
"If you can teach me how to make good tea, that's no problem at all. I can make a decent enough brew, but nowhere hear Her Majesty the Queen's standard."  
"That's settled then. There's nothing I'd like better than to spend Christmas morning with you... it's been about a decade since I've spent it with anyone"  
"Look at you, you hopeless romantic." Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's body, "that does sound terribly appealing... although I was under the impression you didn't like Christmas?"  
"I never have in the past, yet if my predictions are correct, I may enjoy it a decent amount more this year."  
"Me too, honey. Me too."

                             ***  
Not only did Greg move in the next weekend, so did blizzards. The forecast had spoken of a few centimetres, but in its traditionally inaccurate style, that forecast was far from correct, and so Greg found himself trying to shift boxes from his car to the front door through about two feet of snow. Mycroft was 'helping' by bringing him a flask of tea and standing at the door ready to open it every time another box left the car - he couldn't bear to leave it open and let a draft in.   
"I think the next one's the last one." Greg mentioned as he passed the box to Mycroft.  
"What've you got in this one, sticks of lead?" he groaned under the weight.  
"Dunno - guess we'll see when we open it." 

                                ***

Two hours later, nearly every box had been opened, and nearly everything had been found a place. Firstly, his clothing was given a wardrobe in the spare room, which was to become his own dressing room. They'd agreed that Mycroft's dressing room should be separate because of his often erratic work schedule.  
Then there were his shoes which, to Mycroft's delight, filled up the shoe rack with perfect spacing.   
Regretfully, Greg had to put some things in a box in the garage, simply because a place couldn't be found for them - for example, he had a couple of fridge magnets, but Mycroft didn't have a magnetic fridge, and a bread box which had no use as Mycroft owned one already.    
His books were shelved without question. The smaller ones in the living room, the cookbooks suitably in the kitchen and the larger copies in Mycroft's personal library where the shelves were much taller.  
All of this was achieved quite amiably, fuelled by tea and biscuits.   
Everything in order, the couple collapsed in the living room again, hot chocolate in hand and the television switched on.   
"Christmas movie after Christmas movie after Christmas movie. They do know it's not for four days, don't they?" Mycroft flicked through the channels.  
"Oh, they've been playing these since the beginning of December... I've always found it quite comforting if I'm honest."   
"Hmm..." he mumbled, mid-sip, "I've always had a preference for the Christmas ghost stories."  
"Of course you have. A Christmas Carol's on."   
"Which version?"  
"Erm... the Muppet's Christmas Carol."   
Greg laughed at his partner's scowling face, "I'll have you know, it's very good! Michael Caine plays Scrooge."   
"Michael Caine... ah, Ipcress-files-Michael-Caine. Yes, he's an impeccable actor, but I'm not sure if I can stand two hours of all that 'wadda wadda' or whatever the bear says." he plonked his cup down forcefully on a coaster.  
"Fozzie says 'wacka wacka', and he's barely in the movie anyway." the D.I. tried to reason. The Muppet's Christmas Carol was quite frankly his favourite Christmas movie, even if it was meant for kids. Michael Caine brought a degree of gravity to the film, despite the singing puppets.   
"Do you seriously want to watch this?"   
"...yes."  
"Stick it on then. Michael Caine might make this bearable."  
As the scene opened up to the London cityscape and the overture of the film, Mycroft subconsciously cuddled up to Greg. His favourite position by now: close to the one he loved, it made him feel less alone...

" 'Welcome to The Muppet's Christmas Carol! I am here to tell the story.'

'And I am here for the food.' "

"Why's the bird with the weird nose playing Charles Dickens?"   
"That's Gonzo and it's because he is... shhh. Look, there you go. Michael Caine."  
"Now they're singing, oh deep deep joy."

"'When a cold wind blows and chills you, chills to the bone,   
But there's nothing in nature that freezes your heart like years of being alone,  
It paints you with indifference like a lady paints with rouge,  
And the worst of the worst, the most hated and cursed is the one that we call Scrooge!  
Oh, here comes Mister Humbug..."

By the end of the first song, Mycroft was inexplicably captivated. Greg was right - yes, it was really a kid's movie, but it was also the most accurate screen depiction of Dickens' novel he'd seen (to his great shock) and it made him feel damn nostalgic - for something he'd never had...

"It's in the singing of the street corner choir,  
It's going home and getting warm by the fire,  
It's true wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas." 

It was funny really, Mycroft thought, that a simple song was so thought provoking to him. It was true - he'd never felt an ounce of Christmas spirit, but sitting there in the arms of his boyfriend, he was ready to start shouting out the lyrics of 'Oh I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday."

He even cried when the Ghost of Christmas Present predicted Tiny Tim's early death, sobbed into Greg's shoulder when the Ghost of Christmas future showed Scrooge the Cratchitt's future with Tiny Tim gone.

" 'I picked a spot for Tim where he can see...  
It's a spot on the hill  
And you can see the ducks on the river.'

'Tim always loved watching the ducks on the river.' "

"Why's this movie so sad Gregory? I thought it was a Christmas movie?" He sighed into Greg's shoulder.  
"You've read a Christmas Carol, haven't you?"  
"Yes, but... but... it's the music, that's what it is. Just clever filmmaking..."  
"Or you're a highly emotional person."

At the final stanza of 'Bless us all.", Mycroft's face was plastered with such a smile, Greg just had to kiss his cheek. "You're beautiful when you smile like that..." he murmured, "so, you enjoyed?"  
"That was... magical... I think I'm going to enjoy Christmas this year very much indeed..."


End file.
